BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 


Works  of  Henry  B.  Fuller 


THE  CHEVALIER  OF  PENSIERI-VANI 
(1890).  Italian  Travel 

THE  CHATELAINE  OF  LA  TRINITE  (1892). 
Alpine  Travel 

THE  CLIFF-DWELLERS  (1893).  Contem 
porary  Chicago 

WITH  THE  PROCESSION  (1895).  Contem 
porary  Chicago 

THE  PUPPET-BOOTH  (1896).  Dramatic 
Sketches 

FROM  THE  OTHER  SIDE  (1898).  Short 
Stories  of  European  Travel 

THE  LAST  EEFUGE  (1900).  A  Sicilian 
Romance 

UNDER  THE  SKYLIGHTS  (1901).  Novel 
ettes  of  Chicago  Art  Life 

WALDO  TRENCH  AND  OTHERS  (1908). 
Stories  of  Italian  Travel 

LINES  LONG  AND  SHORT  (1917).  Life- 
SJcetches  in  Various  Rhythms 

ON  THE  STAIRS  (1918).  Chicago,  1873- 
1918 

BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR  (1919).  Contem 
porary  Chicago 


BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

A  NOVEL 


BY 

HENRY  B.  FULLER 


CHICAGO 

RALPH   FLETCHER  SEYMOUR 

THE   ALDERBRINK   PRESS 
1919 


COPYRIGHT,  1919 

BY 
HENRY   B.   FULLER 


34 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     COPE  AT  A  COLLEGE  TEA 7 

II.  COPE    MAKES    A    SUNDAY    AFTERNOON 

CALL 19 

III.  COPE  Is  "ENTERTAINED" 27 

IV.  COPE  Is  CONSIDERED 35 

V.  COPE  Is  CONSIDERED  FURTHER       ...  45 

VI.  COPE  DINES — AND  TELLS  ABOUT  IT     .  55 

VII.     COPE  UNDER  SCRUTINY 65 

VIII.  COPE  UNDERTAKES  AN  EXCURSION     .     .  73 

IX.  COPE  ON  THE  EDGE  OF  THINGS    ...  81 

X.  COPE  AT  His  HOUSE  PARTY     ....  90 

XI.  COPE  ENLIVENS  THE  COUNTRY     ...  99 

XII.  COPE  AMIDST  CROSS-PURPOSES  ....  109 

XIII.  COPE  DINES  AGAIN — AND  STAYS  AFTER  118 

XIV.     COPE  MAKES  AN  EVASION 131 

XV.  COPE  ENTERTAINS  SEVERAL  LADIES   .     .  142 

XVI.     COPE  GOES  A-SAILING 154 

XVII.  COPE  AMONG  CROSS-CURRENTS      .     .     .  164 

XVIII.  COPE  AT  THE  CALL  OF  DUTY    ....  174 

XIX.  COPE  FINDS  HIMSELF  COMMITTED  187 


VI 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XX.  COPE  HAS  A  DISTRESSFUL  CHRISTMAS     .  196 

XXI.  COPE,  SAFEGUARDED,  CALLS  AGAIN     .     .  206 

XXII.  COPE  SHALL  BE  RESCUED 217 

XXIII.  COPE  REGAINS  His  FREEDOM     ....  226 

XXIV.  COPE  IN  DANGER  ANEW 233 

XXV.  COPE  IN  DOUBLE  DANGER 242 

XXVI.  COPE  AS  A  GO-BETWEEN 249 

XXVII.  COPE  ESCAPES  A  SNARE 258 

XXVIII.  COPE  ABSENT  FROM  A  WEDDING    .     .     .  266 

XXIX.  COPE  AGAIN  IN  THE  COUNTRY      .     .     .  273 

XXX.  COPE  AS  A  HERO 281 

XXXI.  COPE  GETS  NEW  LIGHT  ON  His  CHUM    .  289 

XXXII.  COPE  TAKES  His  DEGREE 297 

XXXIII.  COPE  IN  A  FINAL  VIEW  305 


BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 


BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 


CHAPTER  I 
COPE  AT  A  COLLEGE  TEA 

WHAT  is  a  man's  best  age?  Peter  Ibbetson,  enter 
ing  dreamland  with  complete  freedom  to  choose,  chose 
twenty-eight,  and  kept  there.  But  twenty-eight,  for 
our  present  purpose,  has  a  drawback:  a  man  of  that  *  j,, 
age,  if  endowed  with  ordinary  gifts  and  responsive  to 
ordinary  opportunities,  is  undeniably — a  man ;  where 
as  what  we  require  here  is  something  just  a  little  short 
of  that.  Wanted,  in  fact,  a  young  male  who  shall 
seem  fully  adult  to  those  who  are  younger  still,  and 
who  may  even  appear  the  accomplished  flower  of  viril 
ity  to  an  idealizing  maid  or  so,  yet  who  shall  elicit 
from  the  middle-aged  the  kindly  indulgence  due  a 
boy.  Perhaps  you  will  say  that  even  a  man  of  twenty- 
eight  may  seem  only  a  boy  to  a  man  of  seventy.  How 
ever,  no  septuagenarian  is  to  figure  in  these  pages. 
Our  elders  will  be  but  in  the  middle  forties  and  the 
earlier  fifties;  and  we  must  find  for  them  an  age 
which  may  evoke  their  friendly  interest,  and  yet  be 
likely  to  call  forth,  besides  that,  their  sympathy  and 
their  longing  admiration,  and  later  their  tolerance, 
their  patience,  and  even  their  forgiveness. 

7 


8  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

I  think,  then,  that  Bertram  Cope,  when  he  began  to 
intrigue  the  little  group  which  dwelt  among  the  quad 
ruple  avenues  of  elms  that  led  to  the  campus  in 
Churchton,  was  but  about  twenty-four, — certainly  not 
a  day  more  than  twenty-five.  If  twenty-eight  is  the 
ideal  age,  the  best  is  all  the  better  for  being  just  a 
little  ahead. 

Of  course  Cope  was  not  an  undergraduate — a 
species  upon  which  many  of  the  Churchtonians  lan 
guidly  refused  to  bestow  their  regard.  "They  come, 
and  they  go,"  said  these  prosperous  and  comfortable 
burghers;  "and,  after  all,  they're  more  or  less  alike, 
and  more  or  less  unrewarding."  Besides,  the  Bigger 
Town,  with  all  its  rich  resources  and  all  its  varied  op 
portunities,  lay  but  an  hour  away.  Churchton  lived 
much  of  its  real  life  beyond  its  own  limits,  and  the 
student  who  came  to  be  entertained  socially  within 
them  was  the  exception  indeed. 

No,  Bertram  Cope  was  not  an  undergraduate.  He 
was  an  instructor;  and  he  was  working  along,  in  a 
leisurely  way,  to  a  degree.  He  expected  to  be  an 
M.  A.,  or  even  a  Ph.  D.  Possibly  a  Litt.  D.  might  be 
within  the  gift  of  later  years.  But,  anyhow,  nothing 
was  finer  than  "writing" — except  lecturing  about  it. 

"Why  haven't  we  known  you  before?"  Medora  T. 
Phillips  asked  him  at  a  small  reception.  Mrs.  Phillips 
spoke  out  loudly  and  boldly,  and  held  his  hand  as  long 
as  she  liked.  No,  not  as  long  as  she  liked,  but  longer 
than  most  women  would  have  felt  at  liberty  to  do. 
And  besides  speaking  loudly  and  boldly,  she  looked 
loudly  and  boldly;  and  she  employed  a  determined 


COPE  AT  A  COLLEGE  TEA  9 

smile  which  seemed  to  say,  "I'm  old  enough  to  do  as 
I  please."  Her  brusque  informality  was  expected  to 
carry  itself  off — and  much  else  besides.  "Of  course  I 
simply  cant  be  half  so  intrepid  as  I  seem!"  it  said. 
"Everybody  about  us  understands  that,  and  I  must 
ask  your  recognition  too  for  an  ascertained  fact." 

"Known  me?"  returned  Cope,  promptly  enough. 
"Why,  you  haven't  known  me  because  I  haven't  been 
here  to  be  known."  He  spoke  in  a  ringing,  resonant 
voice,  returning  her  unabashed  pressure  with  a  hearty 
good  will  and  blazing  down  upon  her  through  his 
clear  blue  eyes  with  a  high  degree  of  self-possession, 
even  of  insouciance.  And  he  explained,  with  a  liberal 
exhibition  of  perfect  teeth,  that  for  the  two  years 
following  his  graduation  he  had  been  teaching  litera 
ture  at  a  small  college  in  Wisconsin  and  that  he  had 
lately  come  back  to  Alma  Mater  for  another  bout : 
"I'm  after  that  degree,"  he  concluded. 

"Haven't  been  here  ?"  she  returned.  "But  you  have 
been  here;  you  must  have  been  here  for  years — for 
four,  anyhow.  So  why  haven't  we  .  .  .?"  she 
began  again. 

"Here  as  an  undergraduate,  yes,"  he  acknowledged. 
"Unregarded  dust.  Dirt  beneath  your  feet.  In  rainy 
weather,  mud." 

"Mud !"  echoed  Medora  Phillips  loudly,  with  an 
increased  pressure  on  his  long,  narrow  hand.  "Why, 
Babylon  was  built  of  mud — of  mud  bricks,  anyway. 
And  the  Hanging  Gardens  .  .  .  !"  She  still  clung, 
looking  up  his  slopes  terrace  by  terrace. 

Cope  kept  his  self-possession  and  smiled  brilliantly. 


10  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

"Gracious !"  he  said,  no  less  resonant  than  before. 
"Am  I  a  landscape  garden?  Am  I  a  stage-setting? 
Am  I  a ?" 

Medora  Phillips  finally  dropped  his  hand.  "You're 
a  wicked,  unappreciative  boy,"  she  declared.  "I  don't 
know  whether  to  ask  you  to  my  house  or  not.  But 
you  may  make  yourself  useful  in  this  house,  at  least. 
Run  along  over  to  that  corner  and  see  if  you  can't  get 
me  a  cup  of  tea." 

Cope  bowed  and  smiled  and  stepped  toward  the 
tea-table.  His  head  once  turned,  the  smile  took  on  a 
wry  twist.  He  was  no  squire  of  dames,  no  frequenter 
of  afternoon  receptions.  Why  the  deuce  had  he  come 
to  this  one?  Why  had  he  yielded  so  readily  to  the 
urgings  of  the  professor  of  mathematics? — himself 
urged  in  turn,  perhaps,  by  a  wife  for  whose  little 
affair  one  extra  man  at  the  opening  of  the  fall  season 
counted,  and  counted  hugely.  Why  must  he  now  ex 
pose  himself  to  the  boundless  aplomb  and  momentum 
of  this  woman  of  forty-odd  who  was  finding  amuse 
ment  in  treating  him  as  a  "college  boy"?  "Boy"  in 
deed  she  had  actually  called  him:  well,  perhaps  his 
present  position  made  all  this  possible.  He  was  not 
3Tet  out  in  the  world  on  his  own.  In  the  background 
of  "down  state"  was  a  father  with  a  purse  in  his 
pocket  and  a  hand  to  open  the  purse.  Though  the 
purse  was  small  and  the  hand  reluctant,  he  must  partly 
depend  on  both  for  another  year.  If  he  were  only  in 
business — if  he  were  only  a  broker  or  even  a  salesman 
—he  should  not  find  himself  treated  with  such  blunt 
informality  and  condescension  as  a  youth.  If,  within 


COPE  AT  A  COLLEGE  TEA  11 

the  University  itself,  he  were  but  a  real  member  of  the 
faculty,  with  an  assured  position  and  an  assured  sal 
ary,  he  should  not  have  to  lie  open  to  the  uncere 
monious  hectorings  of  the  socially  confident,  the 
"placed." 

He  regained  his  smile  on  the  way  across  the  room, 
and  the  young  creature  behind  the  samovar,  who  had 
had  a  moment's  fear  that  she  must  deal  with  Severity, 
found  that  a  beaming  Affability — though  personally 
unticketed  in  her  memory — was,  after  all,  her  happier 
allotment.  In  her  reaction  she  took  it  all  as  a  personal 
compliment.  She  could  not  know,  of  course,  that  it 
was  but  a  piece  of  calculated  expressiveness,  fitted  to 
a  particular  social  function  and  doubly  overdone  as 
the  wearer's  own  reaction  from  the  sprouting  indigna 
tion  of  the  moment  before.  She  hoped  that  her  hair, 
under  his  sweeping  advance,  was  blowing  across  her 
forehead  as  lightly  and  carelessly  as  it  ought  to,  and 
that  his  taste  in  marquise  rings  might  be  substantially 
the  same  as  hers.  She  faced  the  Quite  Unknown,  and 
asked  it  sweetly,  "One  lump  or  two?" 

"The  dickens  !  How  do  /  know?"  he  thought.  "An 
extra  one  on  the  saucer,  please,"  he  said  aloud,  with 
his  natural  resonance  but  slightly  hushed.  And  his 
blue  eyes,  clear  and  rather  cold  and  hard,  blazed  down, 
in  turn,  on  her. 

"Why,  what  a  nice,  friendly  fellow!"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Phillips,  on  receiving  her  refreshment.  "Both 
kinds  of  sandwiches,"  she  continued,  peering  round 
her  cup.  "Were  there  three?"  she  asked  with  sudden 
shrewdness. 


12  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

"There  were  macaroons,"  he  replied;  "and  there 
was  some  sort  of  layer-cake.  It  was  too  sticky.  These 
are  more  sensible." 

"Never  mind  sense.  If  there  is  cake,  I  want  it.  Tell 
Amy  to  put  it  on  a  plate." 

"Amy?" 

"Yes,  Amy.     My  Amy." 

"Your  Amy?" 

"Off  with  you, — parrot!     And  bring  a  fork  too." 

Cope  lapsed  back  into  his  frown  and  recrossed  the 
room.  The  girl  behind  the  samovar  felt  that  her  hair 
was  unbecoming,  after  all,  and  that  her  ring,  borrowed 
for  the  occasion,  was  in  bad  taste.  Cope  turned  back 
with  his  plate  of  cake  and  his  fork.  Well,  he  had  been 
promoted  from  a  "boy"  to  a  "fellow";  but  must  he 
continue  a  kind  of  methodical  dog-trot  through  a  sub 
limated  butler's  pantry? 

"That's  right,"  declared  Mrs.  Phillips,  on  his  re 
turn,  as  she  looked  lingeringly  at  his  shapely  thumb 
above  the  edge  of  the  plate.  "Come,  we  will  sit  down 
together  on  this  sofa,  and  you  shall  tell  me  all  about 
yourself."  She  looked  admiringly  at  his  blue  serge 
knees  as  he  settled  down  into  place.  They  were 
slightly  bony,  perhaps;  "but  then,"  as  she  told  her 
self,  "he  is  still  quite  young.  Who  would  want  him 
anything  but  slender? — even  spare,  if  need  be." 

As  they  sat  there  together, — she  plying  him  with 
questions  and  he,  restored  to  good  humor,  replying  or 
parrying  with  an  unembarrassed  exuberance, — a  man 
who  stood  just  within  the  curtained  doorway  and 
flicked  a  small  graying  moustache  with  the  point  of 


COPE  AT  A  COLLEGE  TEA  13 

his  forefinger  took  in  the  scene  with  a  studious  re 
gard.  Every  small  educational  community  has  its 
scholar  manque — its  haunter  of  academic  shades  or 
its  intermittent  dabbler  in  their  charms ;  and  Basil 
Randolph  held  that  role  in  Churchton.  No  alumnus 
himself,  he  viewed,  year  after  year,  the  passing  pro 
cession  of  undergraduates  who  possessed  in  their  young 
present  so  much  that  he  had  left  behind  or  had  never 
had  at  all,  and  who  were  walking,  potentially,  toward 
a  promising  future  in  which  he  could  take  no  share. 
Most  of  these  had  been  commonplace  young  fellows 
enough — noisy,  philistine,  glaringly  cursory  and  in 
considerate  toward  their  elders ;  but  a  few  of  them — 
one  now  and  then,  at  long  intervals — he  would  have 
enjoyed  knowing,  and  knowing  intimately.  On  these 
infrequent  occasions  would  come  a  union  of  frankness, 
comeliness  and  elan,  and  the  rudiments  of  good  man 
ners.  But  no  one  in  all  the  long-drawn  procession 
had  stopped  to  look  at  him  a  second  time.  And  now 
he  was  turning  gray ;  he  was  tragically  threatened  with 
what  might  in  time  become  a  paunch.  His  kind  heart, 
his  forthreaching  nature,  went  for  naught;  and  the 
young  men  let  him  walk  under  the  elms  and  the  scrub- 
oaks  neglected.  If  they  had  any  interest  beyond  their 
egos,  their  fraternities,  and  (conceivably)  their 
studies,  that  interest  dribbled  away  on  the  quadrangle 
that  housed  the  girl  students.  "If  they  only  realized 
how  much  a  friendly  hand,  extended  to  them  from 
middle  life,  might  do  for  their  futures  .  .  . !"  he 
would  sometimes  sigh.  But  the  youthful  egoists,  ig 
noring  him  still,  faced  their  respective  futures,  how- 


14,  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

ever  uncertain,  with  much  more  confidence  than  he, 
backed  by  whatever  assurances  and  accumulations  he 
enjoyed,  could  face  his  own. 

"To  be  young !"  he  said.    "To  be  young !" 

Do  you  figure  Basil  Randolph,  alongside  his  por 
tiere,  as  but  the  observer,  the  raisoniwur,  in  this  nar 
rative?  If  so,  you  err.  What! — you  may  ask, — a 
rival,  a  competitor?  That  more  nearly. 

It  was  Medora  Phillips  herself  who,  within  a  mo 
ment  or  two,  inducted  him  into  this  role. 

A  gap  had  come  in  her  chat  with  Cope.  He  had  told 
her  all  he  had  been  asked  to  tell — or  all  he  meant  to 
tell:  at  any  rate  he  had  been  given  abundant  oppor 
tunity  to  expatiate  upon  a  young  man's  darling  sub 
ject — himself.  Either  she  now  had  enough  fixed  points 
for  securing  the  periphery  of  his  circle  or  else  she 
preferred  to  leave  some  portion  of  his  area  (now  as 
certained  approximately)  within  a  poetic  penumbra. 
Or  perhaps  she  wished  some  other  middle-aged  con 
noisseur  to  share  her  admiration  and  confirm  her  judg 
ment.  At  all  events 

"Oh,  Mr.  Randolph,"  she  cried,  "come  here." 

Randolph  left  his  doorway  and  stepped  across. 

"Now  you  are  going  to  be  rewarded,"  said  the  lady, 
broadly  generous.  "You  are  going  to  meet  Mr.  Cope. 

You  are  going  to  meet  Mr. She  paused.  "Do 

you  know," — turning  to  the  young  man, — "I  haven't 
your  first  name?" 

"Why,  is  that  necessary?" 

"You're  not  ashamed  of  it?  Theodosius?  Philan 
der  ?  Hieronymus  ?" 


COPE  AT  A  COLLEGE  TEA  15 

"Stop! — please.     My  name  is  Bertram." 

"Never!" 

"Bertram.     Why  not?" 

"Because  that  would  be  too  exactly  right.  I  might 
have  guessed  and  guessed !" 

"Right  or  wrong,  Bertram's  my  name." 

"You  hear,  Mr.  Randolph?  You  are  to  meet  Mr. 
Bertram  Cope." 

Cope,  who  had  risen  and  had  left  any  embarrass 
ment  consequent  upon  the  short  delay  to  Basil  Ran 
dolph  himself,  shot  out  a  hand  and  summoned  a  ready 
smile.  Within  his  cuff  was  a  hint  for  the  construction 
of  his  fore-arm :  it  was  lean  and  sinewy,  clear-skinned, 
and  with  strong  power  for  emphasis  on  the  other's 
rather  short,  well-fleshed  fingers.  And  as  he  gripped, 
he  beamed;  beamed  just  as  warmly,  or  just  as  coldly — 
at  all  events,  just  as  speciously — as  he  had  beamed 
before:  for  on  a  social  occasion  one  must  slightly 
heighten  good  will, — all  the  more  so  if  one  be  some 
what  unaccustomed  and  even  somewhat  reluctant. 

Mrs.  Phillips  caught  Cope's  glance  as  it  fell  in  all 
its  glacial  geniality. 

"He  looks  down  on  us !"  she  declared. 

"How  down?"  Cope  asked. 

"Well,  you're  taller  than  either  of  us." 

"I  don't  consider  myself  tall,"  he  replied.  "Five 
foot  nine  and  a  half,"  he  proceeded  ingenuously,  "is 
hardly  tall." 

"It  is  we  who  are  short,"  said  Randolph. 

"But  really,  sir,"  rejoined  Cope  kindly,  "I  shouldn't 
call  you  short.  What  is  an  inch  or  two?" 


16  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

"But  how  about  me?"  demanded  Mrs.  Phillips. 

"Why,  a  woman  may  be  anything — except  too  tall," 
responded  Cope  candidly. 

"But  if  she  wants  to  be  stately?" 

"Well,  there  was  Queen  Victoria." 

"You  incorrigible!  I  hope  I'm  not  so  short  as 
that!  Sit  down,  again;  we  must  be  more  on  a  level. 
And  you,  Mr.  Randolph,  may  stand  and  look  down  on 
us  both.  I'm  sure  you  have  been  doing  so,  anyway, 
for  the  past  ten  minutes !" 

"By  no  means,  I  assure  you,"  returned  Randolph 
soberly. 

Soberly.  For  the  young  man  had  slipped  in  that 
"sir."  And  he  had  been  so  kindly  about  Randolph's 
five  foot  seven  and  a  bit  over.  And  he  had  shown 
himself  so  damnably  tender  toward  a  man  fairly  ad 
vanced  within  the  shadow  of  the  fifties — a  man  who, 
if  not  an  acknowledged  outcast  from  the  joys  of  life, 
would  soon  be  lagging  superfluous  on  their  rim. 

Randolph  stood  before  them,  looking,  no  doubt,  a 
bit  vacant  and  inexpressive.  "Please  go  and  get 
Amy,"  Mrs.  Phillips  said  to  him.  "I  see  she's  pre 
paring  to  give  way  to  some  one  else." 

Amy — who  was  a  blonde  girl  of  twenty  or  more — 
came  back  with  him  pleasantly  and  amiably  enough ; 
and  her  aunt — or  whatever  she  should  turn  out  to 
be — was  soon  able  to  lay  her  tongue  again  to  the 
syllables  of  the  interesting  name  of  Bertram. 

Cope,  thus  finally  introduced,  repeated  the  facial 
expressions  which  he  had  employed  already  beside  the 
tea-table.  But  he  added  no  new  one;  and  he  found 


COPE  AT  A  COLLEGE  TEA  17 

fewer  words  than  the  occasion  prompted,  and  even  re 
quired.  He  continued  talking  with  Mrs.  Phillips,  and 
he  threw  an  occasional  remark  toward  Randolph;  but 
now  that  all  obstacles  were  removed  from  free  con 
verse  with  the  divinity  of  the  samovar  he  had  less 
to  say  to  her  than  before.  Presently  the  elder  woman, 
herself  no  whit  offended,  began  to  figure  the  younger 
one  as  a  bit  nonplused. 

"Never  mind,  Amy,"  she  said.  "Don't  pity  him, 
and  don't  scorn  him.  He's  really  quite  self-possessed 
and  quite  chatty.  Or" — suddenly  to  Cope  himself — 
"have  you  shown  us  already  your  whole  box  of  tricks?" 

"That  must  be  it,"  he  returned. 

"Well,  no  matter.  Mr.  Randolph  can  be  nice  to 
a  nice  girl." 

"Oh,  come,  now 

"Well,  shall  I  ask  you  to  my  house,  after  this?" 

"No.     Don't.     Forbid  it.     Banish  me." 

"Give  one  more  chance,"  suggested  Randolph  se 
dately. 

"Why,  what's  all  this  about?"  said  the  questioning 
glance  of  Amy.  If  there  was  any  offense  at  all,  on 
anybody's  part,  it  lay  in  making  too  much  of  too 
little. 

"Take  back  my  plate,  somebody,"  said  Mrs. 
Phillips. 

Randolph  put  out  his  hand  for  it. 

"This  sandwich,"  said  Amy,  reaching  for  an  un 
touched  square  of  wheat  bread  and  pimento.  "I've 
been  so  busy  with  other  people  .  .  ." 

"I'll  take  it  myself,"  declared  Mrs.  Phillips,  reach- 


18  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

ing  out  in  turn.  "Mr.  Randolph,  bring  her  a  nibble 
of  something." 

"7  might "  began  Cope. 

"You  don't  deserve  the  privilege." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  he  returned,  lapsing  into  an  easy 
passivity. 

"Never  mind,  anyway,"  said  Amy,  still  without  cog 
nomen  and  connections ;  "I  can  starve  with  perfect 
convenience.  Or  I  can  find  a  mouthful  somewhere, 
later." 

"Let  us  starve  sitting,"  said  Randolph.  "Here  are 
chairs." 

The  hostess  herself  came  bustling  up  brightly. 

"Has  everybody     .     .     .?" 

And  she  bustled  away. 

"Yes;  everybody — almost,"  said  Mrs.  Phillips  to 
her  associates,  behind  their  entertainer's  back.  "If 
you're  hungry,  Amy,  it's  your  own  fault.  Sit  down." 

And  there  let  us  leave  them — our  little  group,  our 
cast  of  characters:  "everybody — almost,"  save  one. 
Or  two.  Or  three. 


CHAPTER  II 
COPE  MAKES  A  SUNDAY  AFTERNOON  CALL 

MEDORA  PHILLIPS  was  the  widow  of  a  picture-dealer, 
now  three  years  dead.  In  his  younger  days  he  had 
been  something  of  a  painter,  and  later  in  life  as  much 
a  collector  as  a  merchandizer.  Since  his  death  he 
had  been  translated  gradually  from  the  lower  region 
proper  to  mere  traffickers  on  toward  the  loftier  plane 
which  harbored  the  more  select  company  of  art- 
patrons  and  art-amateurs.  Some  of  his  choicer  ven 
tures  were  still  held  together  as  a  "gallery,"  with  a 
few  of  his  own  canvases  included;  and  his  surviving 
partner  felt  this  collection  gave  her  good  reason  for 
holding  up  her  head  among  the  arts,  and  the  sciences, 
and  humane  letters  too. 

Mrs.  Phillips  occupied  a  huge,  amorphous  house 
some  three-quarters  of  a  mile  to  the  west  of  the  cam 
pus.  It  was  a  construction  in  wood,  with  manifold 
"features"  suggestive  of  the  villa,  the  bungalow,  the 
chateau,  the  palace;  it  united  all  tastes  and  contra 
vened  all  conventions.  In  its  upper  story  was  the  com 
modious  apartment  which  was  known  in  quiet  times  as 
the  picture-gallery  and  in  livelier  times  as  the  ball 
room.  It  was  the  mistress'  ambition  to  have  the  lively 
times  as  numerous  as  possible — to  dance  with  great 
frequency  among  the  pictures.  Six  or  eight  couples 

19 


20  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

could  gyrate  here  at  once.  There  was  young  blood  un 
der  her  roof,  and  there  was  young  blood  to  summon 
from  outside ;  and  to  set  this  blood  seething  before  the 
eyes  of  visiting  celebrities  in  the  arts  and  letters  was 
her  dearest  wish.  She  had  more  than  one  spare  bed 
room,  of  course ;  and  the  Eminent  and  the  Queer  were 
always  welcome  for  a  sojourn  of  a  week  or  so,  whether 
they  came  to  read  papers  and  deliver  lectures  or  not. 
She  was  quite  as  well  satisfied  when  they  didn't.  If 
they  would  but  sit  upon  her  wide  veranda  in  spring  or 
autumn,  or  before  her  big  open  fireplace  in  winter  and 
"just  talk,"  she  would  be  as  open-eyed  and  open- 
eared  as  you  pleased. 

"This  is  much  nicer,"  she  would  say.  Nicer  than 
what,  she  did  not  always  make  clear. 

Yes,  the  house  was  nearly  three-quarters  of  a  mile 
to  the  west  of  the  campus,  but  it  was  twice  as  far  as 
if  it  had  been  north  or  south.  Trains  and  trolleys, 
intent  on  serving  the  interests  of  the  great  majority, 
took  their  own  courses  and  gave  her  guests  no  aid. 
If  the  evening  turned  cold  or  blustery  or  brought  a 
driving  rain  she  would  say : 

"You  can't  go  out  in  this.  You  must  stay  all  night. 
We  have  room  and  to  spare." 

If  she  wanted  anybody  to  stay  very  much,  she  would 
even  add: 

"I  can't  think  of  your  walking  toward  the  lake  with 
such  a  gale  in  your  face," — regardless  of  the  fact  that 
the  lake  wind  was  the  rarest  of  them  all  and  that  in 
nine  cases  out  of  ten  the  rain  or  snow  would  be  not  in 
people's  faces  but  at  their  backs. 


COPE  MAKES  A  SUNDAY  CALL  21 

If  she  didn't  want  anybody  to  stay,  she  simply  or 
dered  out  the  car  and  bundled  him  off.  The  delay  in 
the  offer  of  the  car  sometimes  induced  a  young  man 
to  remain.  Tasteful  pajamas  and  the  promise  of  a 
suitably  early  breakfast  assured  him  that  he  had 
made  no  mistake. 

Cope's  first  call  was  made,  not  on  a  tempestuous 
evening  in  the  winter  time,  but  on  a  quiet  Sunday 
afternoon  toward  the  end  of  September.  The  day 
was  sunny  and  the  streets  were  full  of  strollers  moving 
along  decorously  beneath  the  elms,  maples  and  catal- 
pas. 

"Drop  in  some  Sunday  about  five,"  Medora  Phillips 
had  said  to  him,  "and  have  tea.  The  girls  will  be 
glad  to  meet  you." 

"The  girls"?  Who  were  they,  and  how  many?  He 
supposed  he  could  account  for  one  of  them,  at  least; 
but  the  others? 

"You  find  me  alone,  after  all,"  was  her  greeting. 
"The  girls  are  out  walking — with  each  other,  or  their 
beaux,  or  whatever.  Come  in  here." 

She  led  him  into  a  spacious  room  cluttered  with 
lambrequins,  stringy  portieres,  grilles,  scroll-work, 
bric-a-brac.  .  .  . 

"The  fine  weather  has  been  too  much  for  them,"  she 
proceeded.  "I  was  relying  on  them  to  entertain  you." 

"Dear  me!     Am  I  to  be  entertained?" 

"Of  course  you  are."  Her  expression  and  inflection 
indicated  to  him  that  he  had  been  caught  up  in  the 
cogs  of  a  sizable  machine,  and  that  he  was  to  be  put 
through  it.  Everybody  who  came  was  entertained — 


22  BERTHAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

or  helped  entertain  others.  Entertainment,  in  fact, 
was  the  one  object  of  the  establishment. 

"Well,  can't  you  entertain  me  yourself?" 

"Perhaps  I  can."  And  it  almost  seemed  as  if  he 
had  been  secured  and  isolated  for  the  express  purpose 
of  undergoing  a  particular  course  of  treatment. 

" in  the  interval,"  she  amended.  "They'll  be 

back  by  sunset.  They're  clever  girls  and  I  know  you'll 
enjoy  them." 

She  uttered  this  belief  emphatically — so  emphati 
cally,  in  truth,  that  it  came  to  mean :  "I  wonder  if  you 
will  indeed."  And  there  was  even  an  overtone :  "After 
all,  it's  not  the  least  necessary  that  you  should." 

"I  suppose  I  have  met  one  of  them  already." 

"You  have  met  Amy.  But  there  are  Hortense  and 
Carolyn." 

"What  can  they  all  be?"  he  wondered  to  himself: 
"daughters,  nieces,  cousins,  co-eds,  boarders  .  .  .  ?" 

"Amy  plays.    Hortense  paints.    Carolyn  is  a  poet." 

"Amy  plays  ?  Pardon  me  for  calling  her  Amy,  but 
you  have  never  given  me  the  rest  of  her  name." 

"I  certainly  presented  you." 

"To 'Amy'." 

"Well,  that  was  careless,  if  true.  Her  name  is 
Amy  Leffingwell;  and  Hortense's  name  is " 

"Stop,  please.  Pay  it  out  gradually.  My  poor 
head  can  hold  only  what  it  can.  Names  without  peo 
ple  to  attach  them  to  .  .  ." 

"The  people  will  be  here  presently,"  Medora  Phil 
lips  said,  rather  shortly.  Surely  this  young  man  was 
taking  his  own  tone.  It  was  not  quite  the  tone  usually 


COPE  MAKES  A  SUNDAY  CALL  23 

taken  by  college  boys  on  their  first  call.  Her  position 
and  her  imposing  surroundings — yes,  her  kindliness 
in  noticing  him  at  all — might  surely  save  her  from 
informalities  that  almost  shaped  into  impertinences. 
Yet,  on  the  other  hand,  nothing  bored  one  more  than 
a  young  man  who  openly  showed  himself  intimidated. 
What  was  there  behind  this  one?  More  than  she  had 
thought?  Well,  if  so,  none  the  worse.  Time  might 
tell. 

"So  Miss  Leffingwell  plays?"  He  flared  out  his 
blue-white  smile.  "Let  me  learn  my  lesson  page  by 
page." 

"Yes,  she  plays,"  returned  Medora  Phillips  briefly. 
"Guess  what,"  she  continued  presently,  half  placated. 

They  were  again  side  by  side  on  a  sofa,  each  with 
an  elbow  on  its  back  and  the  elbows  near  together. 
Nor  was  Medora  Phillips,  though  plump,  at  all  the 
graceless,  dumpy  little  body  she  sometimes  taxed  her 
self  with  being. 

"What?    Oh,  piano,  I  suppose." 

"Piano !" 

"What's  wrong?" 

"The  piano  is  common:  it's  assumed." 

"Oh,  she  performs  on  something  unusual?  Xylo 
phone  ?" 

"Be  serious." 

"Trombone?  I've  seen  wonders  done  on  that  in  a 
'lady  orchestra'." 

"Don't  be  grotesque."  She  drew  her  dark  eyebrows 
into  protest.  "What  a  sight ! — a  delicate  young  girl 
playing  a  trombone !" 


24  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

"Well,  then, — a  harp.  That's  sometimes  a  pleasant 
sight." 

"A  harp  needs  an  express  wagon.  Though  of  cours^ 
it  is  pretty  for  the  arms." 

"Arms?     Let  me  see.     The  violin?" 

"Of  course.  And  that's  probably  the  very  first 
thing  you  thought  of.  Why  not  have  mentioned  it?" 

"I  suppose  I've  been  taught  the  duty  of  making 
conversation." 

"The  duty?     Not  the  pleasure?" 

"That  remains  to  be  .  .  ."  He  paused.  "So 
she  has  arms,"  he  pretended  to  muse.  "I  confess  I 
hadn't  quite  noticed." 

"She  passed  you  a  cup  of  tea,  didn't  she?" 

"Oh,  surely.  And  a  sandwich.  And  another.  And 
a  slice  of  layer  cake,  with  a  fork.  And  another  cup 
of  tea.  And  a  macaroon  or  two 

"Am  I  a  glutton?" 

"Am  I?  Some  of  all  that  provender  was  for  me,  as 
I  recall." 

They  were  still  side  by  side  on  the  sofa.  Both  were 
cross-kneed,  and  the  tip  of  her  russet  boot  almost 
grazed  that  of  his  Oxford  tie.  He  did  not  notice:  he 
was  already  arranging  the  first  paragraph  of  a  letter 
to  a  friend  in  Winnebago,  Wisconsin.  "Dear  Arthur: 
I  called, — as  I  said  I  was  going  to.  She  is  a  scrapper. 
She  goes  at  you  hammer  and  tongs — pretending  to 
quarrel  as  a  means  of  entertaining  you  .  .  ." 

Medora  Phillips  removed  her  elbow  from  the  back 
of  the  sofa,  and  began  to  prod  up  her  cushions.  "How 
about  your  work?"  she  asked.  "What  are  you  doing?" 


COPE  MAKES  A  SUNDAY  CALL  25 

He  came  back.  "Oh,  I'm  boning.  Some  things  still 
to  make  up.  I'm  digging  in  the  poetry  of  Gower — 
the  'moral  Gower'." 

"Well,  I  see  no  reason  why  poetry  shouldn't  be 
moral.  Has  he  been  publishing  anything  lately  that 
I  ought  to  see?" 

"Not— lately." 

"I  presume  I  can  look  into  some  of  his  older  things." 

"They  are  all  old — five  hundred  years  and  more. 
He  was  a  pal  of  Chaucer's." 

She  gave  him  an  indignant  glance.  "So  that's  it? 
You're  laying  traps  for  me  ?  You  don't  like  me !  Yrou 
don't  respect  me!" 

One  of  the  recalcitrant  cushions  fell  to  the  floor. 
They  bumped  heads  in  trying  to  pick  it  up. 

"Traps!"  he  said.  "Never  in  the  world!  Don't 
think  it!  Why,  Gower  is  just  a  necessary  old  bore. 
Nobody's  supposed  to  know  much  about  him — except 
instructors  and  their  hapless  students." 

He  added  one  more  sentence  to  his  letter  to  "Ar 
thur" :  "She  pushes  you  pretty  hard.  A  little  of  it 
goes  a  good  way  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  if  that's  the  case  .  .  ."  she  said.  "How 
about  your  thesis?"  she  went  on  swiftly.  "What  are 
you  going  to  write  about?" 

"I  was  thinking  of  Shakespeare." 

"Shakespeare!  There  you  go  again!  Ridiculing 
me  to  my  very  face !" 

"Not  at  all.  There's  lots  to  say  about  him — or 
them." 

"Oh,  you  believe  in  Bacon !" 


26  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

"Not  at  all — once  more.  I  should  like  to  take  a 
year  and  spend  it  among  the  manor-houses  of  War 
wickshire.  But  I  suppose  nobody  would  stake  me  to 
that." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  have  in  mind;  some  wild 
goose  chase,  probably.  I  expect  your  friends  would 
like  it  better  if  you  spent  your  time  right  here." 

"Probably.  I  presume  I  shall  end  by  doing  a 
thesis  on  the  'color-words'  in  Keats  and  Shelley.  A 
penniless  devil  has  no  luck." 

"Anybody  has  luck  who  can  form  the  right  circle. 
Stay  where  you  are.  A  circle  formed  here  would  do 
you  much  more  good  than  a  temporary  one  four 
thousand  miles  away." 

Voices  were  heard  in  the  front  yard.  "There  they 
come,  now,"  Mrs.  Phillips  said.  She  rose,  and  one 
more  of  the  wayward  cushions  went  to  the  floor.  It 
lay  there  unregarded, — a  sign  that  a  promising  tete- 
a-tete  was,  for  the  time  being,  over. 


CHAPTER  III 

COPE  IS  "ENTERTAINED" 

MRS.  PHILLIPS  stepped  to  the  front  door  to  meet 
the  half  dozen  young  people  who  were  cheerily  coming 
up  the  walk.  Cope,  looking  at  the  fallen  cushions 
with  an  unseeing  eye,  remained  within  the  drawing- 
room  door  to  compose  a  further  paragraph  for  the 
behoof  of  his  correspondent  in  Wisconsin: 

"Several  girls  helped  entertain  me.  They  came  on 
as  thick  as  spatter.  One  played  a  few  things  on  the 
violin.  Another  set  up  her  easel  and  painted  a  pic 
ture  for  us.  A  third  wrote  a  poem  and  read  it  to 
us.  And  a  few  sophomores  hung  about  in  the  back 
ground.  It  was  all  rather  too  much.  I  found  myself 
preferring  those  hours  together  in  dear  old  Winne- 
bago  .  .  ." 

Only  one  of  the  sophomores — if  the  young  men 
were  really  of  that  objectionable  tribe — came  indoors 
with  the  young  ladies.  The  others — either  engaged 
elsewhere  or  consciously  unworthy — went  away  after 
a  moment  or  two  on  the  front  steps.  Perhaps  they  did 
not  feel  "encouraged."  And  in  fact  Mrs.  Phillips 
looked  back  toward  Cope  with  the  effect  of  communi 
cating  the  idea  that  she  had  enough  men  for  to-day. 
She  even  conveyed  to  him  the  notion  that  he  had  made 

the  others  superfluous.     But 

27 


28  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

"Hum!"  he  thought;  if  there's  to  be  a  lot  of  'en 
tertaining,'  the  more  there  are  to  be  entertained  the 
better  it  might  turn  out." 

He  met  Hortense  and  Carolyn — with  due  stress  laid 
on  their  respective  patronymics — and  he  made  an  early 
acquaintance  with  Amy's  violin. 

And  further  on  Mrs.  Phillips  said : 

"Now,  Amy,  before  you  really  stop,  do  play  that 
last  little  thing.  "The  dear  child,"  she  said  to  Cope 
in  a  lower  tone,  "composed  it  herself  and  dedicated  it 
to  me." 

The  last  little  thing  was  a  kind  of  "meditation," 
written  very  simply  and  performed  quite  seriously  and 
unaffectedly.  And  it  gave,  of  course,  a  good  chance 
for  the  arms. 

"There !"  said  Mrs.  Phillips,  at  its  close.  "Isn't  it 
too  sweet?  And  it  inspired  Carolyn  too.  She  wrote 
a  poem  after  hearing  it." 

"A  copy  of  verses,"  corrected  Carolyn,  with  a  mod 
est  catch  in  her  breath.  She  was  a  quiet,  sedate  girl, 
with  brown  eyes  and  hair.  Her  eyes  were  shy,  and 
her  hair  was  plainly  dressed. 

"Oh,  you're  so  sweet,  so  old-fashioned !"  protested 
Mrs.  Phillips,  slightly  rolling  her  eyes.  "It's  a  poem, 
— of  course  it's  a  poem.  I  leave  it  to  Mr.  Cope,  if  it 
isn't !" 

"Oh,  I  beg "  began  Cope,  in  trepidation. 

"Well,  listen,  anyway,"  said  Medora. 

The  poem  consisted  of  some  six  or  seven  brief 
stanzas.  Its  title  was  read,  formally,  by  the  writer ; 
and,  quite  as  formally,  the  dedication  which  intervened 


COPE  IS  "ENTERTAINED"  29 

between  title  and  first  stanza, — a  dedication  to  "Me- 
dora  Townsend  Phillips." 

"Of  course,"  said  Cope  to  himself.  And  as  the  read 
ing  went  on,  he  ran  his  eyes  over  the  dusky,  darkening 
walls.  He  knew  what  he  expected  to  find. 

Just  as  he  found  it  the  sophomore  standing  between 
the  big  padded  chair  and  the  book-case  spatted  his 
hands  three  times.  The  poem  was  over,  the  patroness 
duly  celebrated.  Cope  spatted  a  little  too,  but  kept 
his  eye  on  one  of  the  walls. 

"You're  looking  at  my  portrait !"  declared  Mrs. 
Phillips,  as  the  poetess  sank  deeper  into  the  big  chair. 
"Hortense  did  it." 

"Of  course  she  did,"  said  Cope  under  his  breath. 
He  transferred  an  obligatory  glance  from  the  canvas 
to  the  expectant  artist.  But 

"It's  getting  almost  too  dark  to  see  it,"  said  his 
hostess,  and  suddenly  pressed  a  button.  This  brought 
into  play  a  row  of  electric  bulbs  near  the  top  edge  of 
the  frame  and  into  full  prominence  the  dark  plumpness 
of  the  subject.  He  looked  back  again  from  the  pain 
ter  (who  also  had  black  hair  and  eyes)  to  her  work. 

"I  am  on  Parnassus !"  Cope  declared,  in  one  general 
sweeping  compliment,  as  he  looked  toward  the  sofa 
where  Medora  Phillips  sat  with  the  three  girls  now 
grouped  behind  her.  But  he  made  it  a  boreal  Parnas 
sus — one  set  in  relief  by  the  cold  flare  and  flicker  of 
northern  lights. 

"Isn't  he  the  dear,  comical  chap!"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Phillips,  with  unction,  glancing  upward  and  backward 
at  the  girls.  They  smiled  discreetly,  as  if  indulging 


SO  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

in  a  silent  evaluation  of  the  sincerity  of  the  compli 
ment.  Yet  one  of  them — Hortense — formed  her  black 
brows  into  a  frown,  and  might  have  spoken  resentfully, 
save  for  a  look  from  their  general  patroness. 

"Meanwhile,  how  about  a  drop  of  tea?"  asked  Mrs. 
Phillips  suddenly.  "Roddy" — to  the  sophomore — "if 
you  will  help  clear  that  table  .  .  ." 

The  youth  hastened  to  get  into  action.  Cope  went 
on  with  his  letter  to  "Arthur" : 

"It  was  an  afternoon  in  Lesbos — with  Sappho  and 
her  band  of  appreciative  maidens.  Phaon,  a  poor  lad 
of  nineteen,  swept  some  pamphlets  and  paper-cutters 
off  the  center-table,  and  we  all  plunged  into  the  ocean 

of    Oolong — the    best    thing    we    do    on    this    island 
j> 

He  was  lingering  in  a  smiling  abstractedness  on  his 
fancy,  when 

"Bertram  Cope !"  a  voice  suddenly  said,  "do  you  do 
nothing — nothing  ?" 

He  suddenly  came  to.  Perhaps  he  had  really  de 
served  his  hostess'  rebuke.  He  had  not  offered  to  help 
with  the  tea-service ;  he  had  proffered  no  appropriate 
remark,  of  an  individual  nature,  to  any  of  the  three 
ancillae 

"I  mean,"  proceeded  Mrs.  Phillips,  "can  you  do 
nothing  whatever  to  entertain?" 

Cope  gained  another  stage  on  the  way  to  self-con 
sciousness  and  self-control.  Entertainment  was  doubt 
less  the  basic  curse  of  this  household. 

"I  sing,"  he  said,  with  naif  suddenness  and  sim 
plicity. 


COPE  IS  "ENTERTAINED"  31 

"Then,  sing — do.  There's  the  open  piano.  Can 
you  play  your  own  accompaniments?" 

"Some  of  the  simpler  ones." 

"Some  of  the  simpler  ones!  Do  you  hear  that, 
girls  ?  He  is  quite  prepared  to  wipe  us  all  out.  Shall 
we  let  him  ?" 

"That's  unfair,"  Cope  protested.  "Is  it  my  fault 
if  composers  will  write  hard  accompaniments  to  easy 
airs?" 

"Will  you  sing  before  your  tea,  or  after  it?" 

"I'm  ready  to  sing  this  instant, — during  it,  or  be 
fore  it." 

"Very  well." 

The  room  was  now  in  dusk,  save  for  the  bulbs  which 
made  the  portrait  shine  forth  like  a  wayside  shrine. 
Roddy,  the  possible  sophomore,  helped  a  maid  find 
places  for  the  cups  and  saucers ;  and  the  three  girls, 
still  formed  in  a  careful  group  about  the  sofa,  silently 
waited. 

"Of  course  you  realize  that  this  is  not  such  a  very 
large  room,"  said  Mrs.  Phillips. 

"Meaning     .     .     .?" 

"Well,  your  speaking  voice  is  resonant,  you  know." 

"Meaning,  then,  that  I  am  not  to  raise  the  roof  nor 
jar  the  china.  I'll  try  not  to." 

Nor  did  he.  He  sang  with  care  rather  than  with 
volume,  with  discretion  rather  than  with  abandon. 
The  "simple  accompaniments"  went  off  with  but  a 
slight  hitch  or  two,  yet  the  "resonant  voice"  was 
somehow,  somewhere  lost.  Possibly  Cope  gave  too 
great  heed  to  his  hostess'  caution ;  but  it  seemed  as  if 


32  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

a  voice  essentially  promising  had  slipped  through  some 
teacher's  none  too  competent  hands,  or — what  was 
quite  as  serious — as  if  some  temperamental  brake  were 
operating  to  prevent  the  complete  expression  of  the 
singer's  nature.  Lassen,  Grieg,  Rubinstein — all 
these  were  carried  through  rather  cautiously,  perhaps 
a  little  mechanically;  and  there  was  a  silence.  Hor- 
tense  broke  it. 

"Parnassus,  yes.  And  finally  comes  Apollo."  She 
reached  over  and  murmured  to  Mrs.  Phillips :  "None 
too  skilful  on  the  lyre,  and  none  too  strong  in  the 
lungs  .  .  ." 

Medora  spoke  up  loudly  and  promptly. 

"Do  you  know,  I  think  I've  heard  you  sing  before." 

"Possibly,"  Cope  said,  turning  his  back  on  the 
keyboard.  "I  sang  in  the  University  choir  for  a  year 
or  two." 

"In  gown  and  mortar-board?  'Come,  Holy  Spirit.1 
and  all  that?" 

"Yes;  I  sang  solos  now  and  then." 

"Of  course,"  she  said.  "I  remember  now.  But  I 
never  saw  you  before  without  your  mortar-board. 
That  changes  the  forehead.  Yes,  you're  yourself," 
she  went  on,  adding  to  her  previous  pleasure  the 
further  pleasure  of  recognition.  "You've  earned  your 
tea,"  she  added.  "Hortense,"  she  said  over  her 
shoulder  to  the  dark  girl  behind  the  sofa,  "will  you 

-?     No;  I'll  pour,  myself." 

She  slid  into  her  place  at  table  and  got  things  to 
going.  There  was  an  interval  which  Cope  might  have 
employed  in  praising  the  artistic  aptitudes  of  this 


COPE  IS  "ENTERTAINED"  33 

variously  gifted  household,  but  he  found  no  appro 
priate  word  to  say, — or  at  least  uttered  none.  And 
none  of  the  three  girls  made  any  further  comment  on 
his  own  performance. 

Mrs.  Phillips  accompanied  him,  on  his  way  out,  as 
far  as  the  hall.  She  looked  up  at  him  questioningly. 

"You  don't  like  my  poor  girls,"  she  said.  "You 
don't  find  them  clever;  you  don't  find  them  interest 
ing." 

"On  the  contrary,"  he  rejoined,  "I  have  spent  a 
delightful  hour."  Must  he  go  on  and  confess  that 
he  had  developed  no  particular  dexterity  in  dealing 
with  the  younger  members  of  the  opposite  sex? 

"No,  you  don't  care  for  them  one  bit,"  she  insisted. 
She  tried  to  look  rebuking,  reproachful ;  yet  some 
shade  of  expression  conveyed  to  him  a  hint  that  her 
protest  was  by  no  means  sincere:  if  he  really  didn't, 
it  was  no  loss — it  was  even  a  possible  gain. 

"It's  you  who  don't  care  for  me,"  he  returned.  "I'm 
vieux  jeu." 

"Nonsense,"  she  rejoined.  "If  you  have  a  slight 
past,  that  only  makes  you  the  more  atmospheric.  Be 
sure  you  come  again  soon,  and  put  in  a  little  more  work 
on  the  foreground." 

Cope,  on  his  way  eastward,  in  the  early  evening, 
passed,  near  the  trolley  tracks,  the  Greek  lunch- 
counter,  without  a  thought ;  he  was  continuing  his 
letter  to  "Dear  Arthur" : 

"I  think,"  he  wrote,  with  his  mind's  finger,  "that 
you  might  as  well  come  down.  I  miss  you — even  more 
than  I  thought  I  should.  The  term  is  young,  and  you 


34  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

can  enter  for  Spanish,  or  Psychology,  or  something. 
There's  nothing  for  you  up  there.  The  bishop  can 
spare  you.  Your  father  will  be  reasonable.  We  can 
easily  arrange  some  suitable  quarters  .  .  ." 

And  we  await  a  reply  from  "Dear  Arthur" — the 
fifth  and  last  of  our  little  group.  But  no ;  there  are 
two  or  three  others — as  you  have  just  seen. 


CHAPTER  IV 

COPE  IS  CONSIDERED 

A  FEW  days  after  the  mathematical  tea,  Basil  Ran 
dolph  was  taking  a  sedate  walk  among  the  exotic  elms 
and  the  indigenous  oaks  of  the  campus;  he  was  on  his 
way  to  the  office  of  the  University  registrar.  He  felt 
interested  in  Bertram  Cope  and  meant  to  consult  the 
authorities.  That  is  to  say,  he  intended  to  consult  the 
written  and  printed  data  provided  by  the  authorities, 
— not  to  make  verbal  inquiries  of  any  of  the  college 
officials  themselves.  He  was,  after  all,  sufficiently  in 
the  academic  tradition  to  prefer  the  consultation  of 
records  as  against  the  employment  of  viva  voce 
methods ;  and  he  saw  no  reason  why  his  new  interest 
should  be  widely  communicated  to  other  individuals. 
There  was  an  annual  register;  there  was  an  album  of 
loose  sheets  kept  up  by  the  members  of  the  faculty; 
and  there  was  a  card-catalogue,  he  remembered,  in 
half  a  dozen  little  drawers.  All  this  ought  to  re 
move  any  necessity  of  putting  questions  by  word  of 
mouth. 

The  young  clerk  behind  the  broad  counter  annoyed 
him  by  no  offer  of  aid,  but  left  him  to  browse  for  him 
self.  First,  the  printed  register.  This  was  crowded 
with  professors — full,  head,  associate,  assistant ;  there 
were  even  two  or  three  professors  emeritus.  And 

35 


36  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

each  department  had  its  tale  of  instructors.  But  no 
mention  of  a  Bertram  Cope.  Of  course  not ;  this 
volume,  it  occurred  to  him  presently,  represented  the 
state  of  things  during  the  previous  scholastic  year. 

Next  the  card-catalogue.  But  this  dealt  with  the 
students  only — undergraduate,  graduate,  special.  No 
Cope  there. 

Remained  the  loose-leaf  faculty-index,  in  which  the 
members  of  the  professorial  body  told  something  about 
themselves  in  a  great  variety  of  handwriting:  among 
other  things,  their  full  names  and  addresses,  and  their 
natures  in  so  far  as  penmanship  might  reveal  it.  Ca ; 
Ce;  Cof;  Collard,  Th.  J.,  who  was  an  instructor  in 
French  and  lived  on  Rosemary  Place ;  Copperthwaite, 
Julian  M. ;  Cotton  .  .  .  No  Cope.  He  looked 
again,  and  further.  No  slightest  alphabetical  mis 
placement. 

"You  are  not  finding  what  you  want?"  asked  the 
clerk  at  last.  The  search  was  delaying  other  in 
quirers. 

"Bertram  Cope,"  said  Randolph.  "Instructor,  I 
think." 

"He  has  been  slow.  But  his  page  will  be  in  place 
by  to-morrow.  If  you  want  his  address  .  .  ." 

"Yes?" 

—I  think  I  can  give  it  to  you."  The  youth  re 
tired  behind  a  screen.  "There,"  he  said,  returning 
wth  a  bit  of  pencilling  on  a  scrap  of  paper. 

Randolph  thanked  him,  folded  up  the  paper,  and 
put  it  in  his  pocket.  A  mere  bit  of  ordinary  clerkly 
writing;  no  character,  no  allure.  Well,  the  actual 


COPE  IS  CONSIDERED  37 

chirography  of  the  absentee  would  be  made  manifest 
before  long.  What  was  it  like?  Should  he  himself 
ever  have  a  specimen  of  it  in  a  letter  or  a  note? 

That  evening,  with  his  after-dinner  cigarette,  he 
strolled  casually  through  Granville  Avenue,  the  short 
street  indicated  by  the  address.  It  was  a  loosely -built 
neighborhood  of  frame  dwellings,  with  yards  and  a 
moderate  provision  of  trees  and  shrubs — a  neighbor 
hood  of  people  who  owned  their  houses  but  did  not 
spend  much  money  on  them.  Number  48  was  a  good 
deal  like  the  others.  "Decent  enough,  but  common 
place,"  Randolph  pronounced.  "Yet  what  could  I 
have  been  expecting?"  he  added;  and  his  whimsical 
smile  told  him  not  to  let  himself  become  absurd. 

There  were  lighted  windows  in  the  front  and  at  the 
side.  Which  of  these  was  Cope's,  and  what  was  the 
boy  doing?  Was  he  deep  in  black-letter,  or  was  he 
selecting  a  necktie  preliminary  to  some  evening  diver 
sion  outside?  Or  had  he  put  out  his  light — several 
windows  were  dark — and  already  taken  the  train  into 
town  for  some  concert  or  theatre? 

"Well,"  said  Randolph  to  himself,  with  a  last  puff 
at  his  cigarette,  "they're  not  likely  to  move  out  and 
leave  him  up  in  the  air.  I  hope,"  he  went  on,  "that 
he  has  more  than  a  bedroom  merely.  But  we  know 
on  what  an  incredibly  small  scale  some  of  them  live." 

He  threw  away  his  cigarette  and  strolled  on  to  his 
own  quarters.  These  were  but  ten  minutes  away.  In 
his  neighborhood,  too,  people  owned  their  homes  and 
were  unlikely  to  hurry  you  out  on  a  month's  notice. 
You  could  be  sure  of  being  able  to  stay  on ;  and  Ran- 


38  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

dolph,  in  fact,  had  stayed  on,  with  a  suitable  family, 
for  three  or  four  years. 

He  had  a  good  part  of  one  floor :  a  bedroom,  a 
sitting  room,  with  a  liberal  provision  of  bookshelves, 
and  a  kind  of  large  closet  which  he  had  made  into  a 
"cabinet."  There  are  all  sorts  of  cabinets,  but  this 
was  a  cabinet  for  his  "collection."  His  collection  was 
not  without  some  measure  of  local  fame ;  if  not  strictly 
valuable,  it  was  at  least  comprehensive.  After  all, 
he  collected  to  please  himself.  He  was  a  collector  in 
Churchton  and  a  stockbroker  in  the  city  itself.  The 
satirical  said  that  he  was  the  most  important  collector 
in  "the  street,"  and  the  most  important  stockbroker 
in  the  suburbs.  He  was  a  member  of  a  somewhat 
large  firm,  and  not  the  most  active  one.  His  interest 
had  been  handed  down,  in  a  manner,  from  his  father ; 
and  the  less  he  participated  the  better  his  partners 
liked  it.  He  had  no  one  but  himself,  and  a  sister  on 
the  far  side  of  the  city,  miles  and  miles  away.  His 
principal  concern  was  to  please  himself,  to  indulge  his 
nature  and  tastes,  and  to  get,  in  a  quiet  way,  "a  good 
deal  out  of  life."  But  nobody  ever  spoke  of  him  as 
rich.  His  collection  represented  his  own  preferences, 
perseverance  and  individual  predilections.  Least  of 
all  had  it  been  brought  together  to  be  "realized  on" 
after  his  death. 

"I  may  be  something  of  a  fool,  in  my  own  meek 
fashion,"  he  acknowledged,  "but  I'm  no  such  fool  as 
that." 

He  had  a  few  jades  and  lacquers — among  the  lat 
ter,  the  ordinary  inkwells  and  sword-guards ;  a  few 


COPE  IS  CONSIDERED  39 

snuff-boxes ;  some  puppets  in  costume  from  Mexico  and 
Italy;  a  few  begrimed  vellum-bound  books  in  foreign 
languages  (which  he  could  not  always  read)  ;  and  now 
and  then  a  friend  who  was  "breaking  up"  would  give 
him  a  bit  of  Capo  di  Monte  or  an  absurd  enigmatic 
musical  instrument  from  the  East  Indies.  And  he 
had  a  small  department  of  Americana,  dating  from  the 
days  of  the  Civil  War. 

"Miscellaneous  enough,"  pronounced  Medora  Phil 
lips,  on  once  viewing  his  cabinet,  but  not  altogether" 
— she  proceeded  charitably — "utter  rubbish." 

And  it  was  felt  by  others  too  that,  in  the  lack  of  any 
wide  opportunity,  he  had  done  rather  well.  Church- 
ton  itself  was  no  nest  of  antiquities;  in  1840  it  had 
consisted  merely  of  a  log  tavern  on  the  Green  Bay 
road,  and  the  first  white  child  born  within  its  limits 
had  died  but  recently.  Nor  was  the  Big  Town  just 
across  the  "Indian  Boundary"  much  older.  It  had 
"antique  shops,"  true";  but  one's  best  chances  were  got 
through  mousing  among  the  small  scattered  troups  of 
foreigners  (variegated  they  were)  who  had  lately 
been  coming  in  pell-mell,  bringing  their  household 
knick-knacks  with  them.  There  was  a  Ghetto,  there 
was  a  Little  Italy,  there  were  bits  of  Bulgaria,  Bo 
hemia,  Armenia,  if  one  had  tired  of  dubious  Louis 
Quinze  and  Empire.  In  an  atmosphere  of  general 
newness  a  thing  did  not  need  to  be  very  old  to  be  an 
antique. 

The  least  old  of  all  things  in  Randolph's  world 
were  the  students  who  flooded  Churchton.  There 
were  two  or  three  thousand  of  them,  and  hundreds  of 


40  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

new  ones  came  with  every  September.  Sometimes  he 
felt  prompted  to  "collect"  them,  as  contrasts  to  his 
older  curios.  They  were  fully  as  interesting,  in  their 
way,  as  brasswork  and  leatherwork,  those  products 
of  peasant  natures  and  peasant  hands.  But  these 
youths  ran  past  one's  eye,  ran  through  one's  fingers. 
They  were  not  static,  not  even  stable.  They  were 
restless  birds  of  passage  who  fidgeted  through  their 
years,  and  even  through  the  days  of  which  the  years 
were  made:  intent  on  their  own  affairs  and  their  own 
companions ;  thankless  for  small  favors  and  kind  at 
tentions — even  unconscious  of  them ;  soaking  up  good 
will  and  friendly  offices  in  a  fashion  too  damnably 
taken-for-granted.  .  .  .  You  gave  them  an  even 
ing  among  your  books,  with  discreet  things  to  drink, 
to  smoke,  to  play  at,  or  you  offered  them  a  good  din 
ner  at  some  good  hotel ;  and  you  never  saw  them  after. 
.  .  .  They  said  "Yes,  sir,"  or  "Yep ;"  but  whether 
they  pained  you  by  being  too  respectful  or  rasped  you 
by  being  too  rowdyish,  it  all  came  to  the  same:  they 
had  little  use  for  you ;  they  readily  forgot  and  quickly 
dropped  you. 

"I  wonder  whether  instructors  are  a  shade  better," 
queried  Basil  Randolph.  "Or  when  do  sense  and  grati 
tude  and  savoir-faire  begin?" 

A  few  days  later  he  had  returned  to  the  loose-leaf 
faculty.  Cope's  page  was  now  in  place,  with  full 
particulars  in  his  own  hand :  his  interest  was  "English 
Literature,"  it  appeared.  "H'm !  nothing  very  spe 
cial  in  that,"  commented  Randolph.  But  Cope's  pen- 


COPE  IS  CONSIDERED  41 

manship  attracted  him.  It  was  open  and  easy :  "He 
never  gave  his  instructor  any  trouble  in  reading  his 
themes."  Yet  the  hand  was  rather  boyish.  Was  it 
formed  or  unformed?  "I  am  no  expert,"  confessed 
Randolph.  He  put  Cope's  writing  on  a  middle  ground 
and  let  it  go  at  that. 

He  recalled  the  lighted  windows  and  wondered  near 
which  one  of  them  the  same  hand  filled  note-books  and 
corrected  students'  papers. 

"Rather  a  dreary  routine,  I  imagine,  for  a  young 
fellow  of  his  age.  Still,  he  may  like  it,  possibly." 

He  thought  of  his  own  early  studies  and  of  his  own 
early  self-sufficiencies.  He  felt  disposed  to  find  his 
earlier  self  in  this  young  man — or  at  least  an  inclina 
tion  to  look  for  himself  there. 

The  next  afternoon  he  walked  over  to  Medora  Phil 
lips.  Medora's  upper  floor  gave  asylum  to  a  half- 
brother  of  her  husband's — an  invalid  who  seldom  saw 
the  outside  world  and  who  depended  for  solace  and 
entertainment  on  neighbors  of  his  own  age  and  in 
terests.  Randolph  expected  to  contribute,  during  the 
week,  about  so  many  hours  of  talk  or  of  reading.  But 
he  would  have  a  few  words  with  Medora  before  going 
up  to  Joe. 

Medora,  among  her  grilles  and  lambrequins,  was 
only  too  willing  to  talk  about  young  Cope. 

"A  charming  fellow — in  a  way,"  she  said  judicially. 
"Frank,  but  a  little  too  self-assured  and  self-centered. 
Exuberant,  but  possibly  a  bit  cold.  Yet — charming." 

"Oh,"   thought  Randolph,  "one  of  the  cool  boys, 


42  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

and  one  of  the  self-sufficing.  Probably  a  bit  of  an 
ascetic  at  bottom,  with  good  capacity  for  self-control 
and  self-direction.  Not  at  all  an  uninteresting  type," 
he  summed  it  up.  "An  ebullient  Puritan?"  he  asked 
aloud. 

"That's  it,"  she  declared,  " — according  to  my  sense 
of  it." 

"Yet  hardly  a  New  Englander,  I  suppose?" 

"Not  directly,  anyhow.  From  down  state — from 
Freeford,  I  think  he  said.  I  judge  that  there's  quite 
a  family  of  them." 

"Quite  a  family  of  them,"  he  repeated  inwardly.  A 
drawback  indeed.  Why  could  an  interesting  young 
organism  so  seldom  be  detached  from  its  milieu  and 
enjoyed  in  isolation?  Prosy  parents;  tiresome,  detri 
mental  brothers  .  .  .  He  wondered  if  she  had 
any  idea  what  they  were  all  like.  It  might  be  just 
as  well,  however,  not  to  know. 

"And,  judging  from  the  family  name,  and  from 
their  taste  at  christenings,  I  should  say  there  might 
be  some  slant  toward  England  itself.  A  nomenclature 
not  without  distinction.  'Bertram';  rather  nice,  eh? 
And  there  is  a  sister  who  teaches  in  one  of  the  schools, 
I  understand;  and  her  name  is  Rosalind,  or  Rosalys. 
Think  of  that!  I  gather  that  the  father  is  in  some 
business,"  she  concluded. 

"Well,  well,"  thought  Randolph ;  "more  than  one 
touch  of  gentility,  of  fine  feeling."  If  the  father  was 
in  "some  business,"  most  likely  it  was  some  one  else's 
business. 


COPE  IS  CONSIDERED  48 

"He  sings,"  said  Medora,  further.  "Entertained  us 
the  other  Sunday  afternoon.  Cool  and  correct,  but 
pleasant.  No  warmth,  no  passion.  No  special  in 
terest  in  any  of  my  poor  girls.  I  didn't  feel  that  he 
was  drawing  any  of  them  too  near  the  danger-line." 

"Mighty  gratifying,  that.  Where  does  one  learn  to 
sing  without  provoking  danger." 

"In  a  church  choir,  of  course.  He  sang  last  year 
in  the  cathedral  at  Winnebago." 

"Oh,  in  Wisconsin.  And  what  took  us  to  Winne 
bago,  I  wonder?" 

"We  were  teaching  in  a  college  there." 

"I  see." 

The  talk  languished.  Basil  Randolph  had  learned 
most  that  he  wanted  to  know,  and  had  learned  it  with 
out  asking  too  many  direct  questions.  He  began  to 
pick  at  the  fussy  fringe  on  the  arm  of  his  chair  and 
to  cast  an  empty  eye  on  the  other  fussy  things  that 
filled  the  room.  The  two  had  exhausted  long  ago  all 
the  old  subjects,  and  he  did  not  care  to  show  an  eager 
ness — still  less,  a  continuing  eagerness — for  this  new 
one:  much  could  be  picked  up  by  indirection,  even  by 
waiting. 

Medora  felt  him  as  distrait.  "Do  you  want  to  go 
up  and  see  Joe  for  a  little  while  before  you  leave  us  ?" 

"I  believe  I  will.  Not  that  I've  brought  anything 
to  read." 

"I  doubt  if  he  cares  to  be  read  to  this  time — 
Carolyn  gave  him  the  headlines  this  forenoon.  He's 
a  bit  restless;  I  think  he'd  rather  talk.  If  you  have 


44  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

nothing  more  to  say  to  me,  perhaps  you  can  find  some 
thing  to  say  to  him." 

"Oh,  come !  I'm  sure  we've  had  a  good  enough  little 
chat.  Aren't  you  a  bit  restless  yourself  ?" 

"Well,  run  along.  I've  heard  his  chair  rolling  about 
up  there  for  the  last  half  hour." 


CHAPTER  V 

COPE  IS  CONSIDERED  FURTHER 

RANDOLPH  took  the  stairs  to  the  second  floor,  and 
presently  his  footfalls  were  heard  on  the  bare  treads 
that  led  from  the  second  to  the  third.  At  the  top 
landing  he  paused  and  looked  in  through  the  open 
door  of  the  picture-gallery. 

Over  the  varnished  oak  floor  of  this  roomy  apart 
ment  a  middle-aged  man  who  wore  a  green  shade  above 
his  eyes  was  propelling  himself  in  a  wheeled  chair. 
Thus  did  Joseph  Foster  cover  the  space  where  the 
younger  and  more  fortunate  sometimes  danced,  and 
thus  did  he  move  among  works  of  art  which,  even  on 
the  brightest  days,  he  could  barely  see. 

He  knew  the  step.     "Brought  anything?"  he  asked. 

He  depended  on  Randolph  for  the  latest  brief  doings 
in  current  fiction;  and  usually  in  the  background — 
and  often  long  in  abeyance — was  something  in  the 
way  of  memoirs  or  biography,  many-volumed,  which 
could  fill  the  empty  hours  either  through  retrospect 
or  anticipation. 

"Only  myself,"  replied  the  other,  stepping  in.  Fos 
ter  dextrously  manoeuvred  his  chair  toward  the  en 
trance  and  reached  out  his  hand. 

"Well,  yourself  is  enough.  It's  good  to  have  a  man 
about  the  place  once  in  a  while.  Once  in  a  while,  I 

45 


46  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

said.  It  gets  tiresome,  hearing  all  those  girls  slither 
ing  and  chattering  through  the  halls."  He  put  his 
bony  hands  back  on  the  rims  of  his  wheels.  "Where 
have  you  been  all  this  time?" 

"Oh,  you  know  I  come  when  I  can."  Randolph 
ran  his  eye  over  the  walls  of  the  big  empty  room.  The 
pictures  were  all  in  place — landscapes,  figure-pieces, 
what  not ;  everything  as  familiar  as  the  form  of  words 
he  had  just  employed  to  meet  an  oft-repeated  query 
implying  indifference  and  neglect. 

"How  is  it  outside?  I  haven't  been  down  on  the 
street  for  a  month." 

"Oh,  things  are  bright  and  pleasant  enough." 
Through  the  wide  window  there  appeared,  half  a  mile 
away,  the  square  twin  towers  of  the  University  library, 
reminiscent  of  Oxford  and  Ely.  Round  them  lesser 
towers  and  gables,  scholastic  in  their  gray  stone,  rose 
above  the  trees  of  the  campus.  Beyond  all  these  a 
level  line  of  watery  blue  ran  for  miles  and  provided 
an  eventless  horizon.  A  bright  and  pleasant  enough 
sight  indeed,  but  nothing  for  Joe  Foster. 

"Well,  let  me  by,"  he  said,  "and  we'll  get  along  to 
my  own  room."  The  resonant  bigness  of  the  "gal 
lery"  was  far  removed  from  the  intimate  and  the  so 
ciable. 

To  the  side  of  this  bare  place,  with  its  canvases 
which  had  become  rather  demode — or  at  least  had  long 
ceased  to  interest — lay  two  bed-chambers :  Foster's 
own,  and  one  adjoining,  which  was  classed  as  a  spare 
room.  It  was  sometimes  given  over  to  visiting  lumina 
ries  of  lesser  magnitudes.  Real  celebrities — those  of 


COPE  IS  CONSIDERED  FURTHER          47 

national  or  international  fame — were  entertained  in  a 
sumptuous  suite  on  the  floor  below.  Casual  young 
bachelors,  who  sometimes  happened  along,  were  lodged 
above  and  were  expected  to  adjust  themselves,  as  re 
garded  the  bathroom,  to  the  use  and  wont  of  the  occu 
pant  adjoining. 

Foster's  own  room  was  a  cramped  omnium  gath 
erum,  cluttered  with  the  paraphernalia  of  daily  living. 
It  was  somewhat  disordered  and  untidy — the  cham 
ber  of  a  man  who  could  never  see  clearly  how  things 
were,  or  be  completely  sure  just  what  he  was  about. 

"There's  Pepys  up  there,"  he  said,  pointing  to  his 
bookshelf,  as  he  worked  out  of  his  chair  and  tried  to 
dispose  himself  comfortably  on  a  couch.  "I  hope  we're 
going  to  get  along  a  little  farther  with  him,  some 
time." 

"As  to  that,  I  have  been  getting  along  a  little 
farther; — I've  been  to  the  Library,  looking  some 
what  ahead  in  the  completer  edition.  I  find  that  'Will,' 
who  flung  his  cloak  over  his  shoulder,  'like  a  ruffian,' 
and  got  his  ears  boxed  for  it,  was  no  mere  temporary 
serving-man,  but  lived  on  with  Pepys  for  years  and 
became  the  most  intimate  and  trusted  of  his  friends. 
And  'Gosnell,'  who  lasted  three  days,  you  remem 
ber,  as  Mrs.  Pepys'  maid,  turns  up  a  year  or  two 
later  as  an  actress  at  'the  Duke's  house.'  And  'Deb,' 
that  other  maid  whose  name  we  have  noted  farther 
along — well,  there's  a  deal  more  about  her  than  ex 
actly  tends  to  edification.  .  .  ." 

"Good.    I  hope  we  shall  have  some  more  of  it  pretty 


48  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

"To-day?" 

"Not  exactly  to-day.  I've  got  some  other  things 
to  think  about." 

"Such  as?" 

"Well,  I  expect  you're  going  to  be  invited  here  to 
dinner  pretty  soon?" 

"So?     I've  been  invited  here  to  dinner  before  this." 

"But  another  day  has  come.  A  new  light  has  risen. 
I  haven't  seen  it,  but  I've  heard  it.  I've  heard  it 
sing." 

"A  light  singing?     Aren't  you  getting  mixed?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  There  was  Viollet-le-Duc  and 
the  rose-window  of  Notre  Dame.  They  took  him  there 
as  a  child  for  a  choral  service,  and  he  thought  it  was 
the  rose  itself  that  sang.  And  there  was  Petrarch, 
and  the  young  Milton — both  talking  about  'melodious 
tears' — and  something  of  the  same  sort  in  'The  Blessed 
Damosel.'  And— 

"A  psychological  catch  for  which  there  ought  to 
be  a  name.  Perhaps  there  is  a  name." 

"Well,  as  I  say,  the  light  rose,  shone,  and  sang.  I 
didn't  see  it — I  never  see  anybody.  But  his  voice 
came  up  here  quite  distinctly.  It  seemed  good  to  have 
a  man  in  the  house.  Those  everlasting  girls — I  hope 
he  wasn't  bothering  to  sing  for  them,." 

"He  probably  was.     How  did  it  go?" 

"Very  well  indeed." 

"What  kind  of  voice?" 

"Oh,  baritone,  I  suppose  you'd  call  it." 

"And  he  sang  sentimental  rubbish?" 

"Not  at  all.     Really  good  things." 


COPE  IS  CONSIDERED  FURTHER          49 

"With  passion?" 

"Well,  hardly.  With  cool  correctness.  An  icicle 
on  Dian's  temple — that  would  be  my  guess." 

"An  icicle  ?  No  wonder  the  young  ladies  don't  quite 
fancy  him." 

"I  understand  he  took  them  all  in  a  lump — so  far 
as  he  took  them  at  all.  Treated  them  all  exactly  alike ; 
Hortense  was  quite  scornful  when  she  brought  up  my 
lunch-tray.  Of  course  that's  no  way  for  a  man  to 
do." 

"On  the  contrary.  For  certain  purposes  it  might 
be  a  very  good  way." 

"  'On  the  contrary,'  if  you  like ;  since  frost  may 
perform  the  effects  of  fire.  Medora  herself  is  begin 
ning  to  see  him  as  a  tall,  white  candle,  burning  in 
some  niche  or  at  some  shrine.  Sir  Galahad — or  some 
thing  of  that  sort." 

Randolph  grimaced  at  this. 

"Oh,  misery !  I  hope  she  hasn't  mentioned  her  im 
pression  to  him!  Imagine  whether  a  man  would  en 
joy  being  told  a  thing  like  that.  I  hope,  I'm  sure, 
that  no  'Belle  Dame  sans  Merci'  will  get  on  his  tracks  !" 

"If  he  goes  in  too  much  for  'palely  loitering'  he  may 
be  snatched." 

"Poor  fellow !  They'd  better  leave  him  to  his  studies 
and  his  students.  He  has  his  own  way  to  make,  I 
presume,  and  will  need  all  his  energies  to  get  ahead. 
For,  as  some  one  has  said,  'There  are  no  tea-houses 
on  the  road  to  Parnassus.'  Neither  do  tea-fights  boost 
a  man  toward  the  Porch  or  Academe." 

"He's  going  in  for  teas?" 


50  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

"I  won't  say  that.  But  it  was  at  a  tea  that  I  met 
him.  A  trigonometry  tea  at  little  Mrs.  Ryder's." 

"You've  seen  him  then.  You  have  the  advantage 
of  me.  What's  he  like?" 

"Oh,  he  has  points  in  his  favor.  He  has  looks;  a 
trim  figure,  even  if  spare ;  well-squared  shoulders ;  and 
manners  with  a  breezy,  original  tang.  The  kind  of 
young  fellow  that  people  are  likely  enough  to  like." 

"What  kind  of  manners  did  he  have  for  you?" 

"Well,  there  you  rather  get  me.  He  called  me  'sir,' 
with  a  touch  of  deference;  yet  somehow  I  felt  as  if 
I  were  standing  too  close  to  an  electric  fan." 

"Yes,  even  when  they  indulge  a  show  of  deference, 
they  contrive  to  blow  our  gray  hairs  about  our 
wrinkled  temples." 

"Don't  talk  about  gray  hairs.  You  have  none; 
and  mine  are  not  always  seen  at  first  glance." 

"Medora  begins  to  tax  me  with  a  few.  Don't  you 
see  any?" 

"Not  one.  I  concentrate  on  my  own.  Tush,  you're 
only  forty-seven." 

"Or  fifty-seven,  or  sixty-seven,  or  seventy-seven 
.  .  ."  Foster  adjusted  his  green  shade  and  at 
tempted  an  easier  disposition  of  his  twisted  limbs  on 
the  couch.  "Well,  forty-seven,  as  you  suggest, — as 
you  insist.  How  old  is  this  young  fellow?" 

"Twenty-four  or  twenty-five." 

"Well,  they  can  make  us  seem  either  younger  or 
older.  That  rests  with  ourselves.  It's  all  in  how  we 
take  them,  I  expect." 


COPE  IS  CONSIDERED  FURTHER  51 

"Better  take  them  so  as  to  make  ourselves 
younger." 

"Then  the  other  question." 

"How  they  take  us?" 

"Yes.  We're  lucky,  in  this  day  and  generation,  if 
they  take  us  at  all." 

"You  may  be  right,"  assented  Randolph  ruefully. 
"Yet  there  are  gleams  of  hope.  The  more  thought 
ful  among  them  have  a  kind  of  condescending  pity  to 
bestow " 

"And  the  thoughtless?" 

"They  can  find  uses  for  us.  One  of  the  faculty  was 
telling  me  how  he  tried  to  give  two  or  three  of  his 
juniors  an  outing  at  his  cottage  over  in  Michigan. 
Everything  he  gave  they  took  for  granted.  And  if 
anything  was  lacking  they  took — exceptions.  Monop 
olized  the  boats;  ignored  the  dinner-hour  .  .  . 
Sometimes  I  think  that  even  the  thoughtless  are 
thoughtful  in  their  own  way  and  use  us,  if  we  happen 
to  have  lands  and  substance,  purely  as  practical  con 
veniences.  I've  been  almost  glad  to  think  that  I  pos 
sess  none  myself." 

"Don't  stay  here  and  talk  like  that.  This  is  one 
of  my  blue  days." 

"I  wish  I  had  brought  a  novelette.  Sure  you  don't 
want  to  hear  a  little  more  about  the  Countess  of  Cas- 
tlemaine  and  the  rascalities  of  the  Navy  Office?" 

"No;  some  other  time,  when  I  feel  a  bit  more  ro 
bust.  It  isn't  every  day  that  the  mind  can  digest 
such  a  period  with  comfort." 


52  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

"Are  we  two  old  fogies  beginning  to  wear  on  each 
other?" 

"I  hope  not.  But  when  you  go  down,  stop  for 
Medora  a  minute  and  see  if  she  hasn't  got  something 
to  say." 

Medora — when  he  finally  got  down  stairs — had. 

She  laid  some  knitting  on  the  drawing-room  table 
and  came  out  into  the  hall. 

"No  reading  this  afternoon,  I  judge.  What  I  heard, 
or  seemed  to  hear,  was  a  broken  flow  of  talk." 

"No  reading.     Restless." 

"So  I  was  afraid.  I'd  rather  have  one  good  steady 
voice  purring  along  for  him,  and  then  I  know  he's 
all  right.  Carolyn  has  been  too  busy  lately.  What 
seems  to  have  unsettled  him?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.     Young  life,  possibly." 

"Well,  I've  asked  and  asked  the  girls  not  to  be  quite 
so  gay  and  chattery  in  the  upper  halls." 

"You  can't  keep  girls  quiet." 

"I  don't  want  to — not  everywhere  and  at  all  times." 

"I  have  an  idea  that  a  given  number  of  girls  make 
more  noise  in  a  house  than  the  same  number  of  young 
fellows.  I  know  that  they  do  in  boarding-houses  and 
rooming-houses,  and  I  believe  it's  so  as  between  sorori 
ties  and  fraternities.  Put  a  noise-gauge  in  the  main 
hall  of  the  Alpha- Alpha  house  and  another  in  the  main 
hall  of  the  Beta-Beta  house,  and  the  girls  would  run 
the  score  above  the  boys  every  time.  If  ever  I  build 
a  sorority  house,  it  will  be  for  the  Delta-Iota-Nus,  and 
a  statue  of  the  great  goddess  DIN  herself  shall  stand 
just  within  the  entrance." 


COPE  IS  CONSIDERED  FURTHER          53 

"You  discourage  me.    I  was  going  to  give  a  dinner." 

"Go  ahead.  A  few  remarks  from  me  won't  stop  the 
course  of  your  hospitality.  Neither  would  a  few  ora 
tions.  Neither  would  a  few  deliberative  bodies  assem 
bled  for  a  month  of  sessions,  with  every  member  talking 
from  nine  till  six." 

"You  think  I  indulge  in  too  many?" 

"Too  many  what?     Festivals?     Puns?" 

Medora  paused,  a  bit  puzzled. 

"Puns?     Why,  I  never,  never—          Oh,  I  see!" 

"Too  many  dinners?     No.     Who  could?" 

"This  one  was  to  be  a  young  people's  dinner.  I 
was  going  to  invite  you." 

"Thanks.     Thanks.     Thanks." 

"Still,  if  you  think  my  girls  are  noisy     .     .     ." 

"I  was  speaking  of  girls  in  numbers." 

"Well,  Bertram  Cope  didn't  find  them  so." 

"Why  not?" 

"Why  not,  indeed?  They  collected  in  a  silent  little 
group  behind  my  sofa  .  .  ." 

"Puzzled?     Awed?" 

"Fudge  !    Well,  save  Thursday." 

"Is  he  coming?" 

"I  trust  so." 

"Then  they  do  need  a  constabulary  to  keep  them 
quiet?" 

"Oh,  hush!" 

"How  many  are  you  expecting  to  have?  You  know 
I  don't  enjoy  large  parties." 

"Could  you  stand  ten?" 

"I  think  so." 


54  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

"Thursday,  then,"  she  said,  with  a  definitive  hand 
on  the  knob  of  the  door. 

Randolph  went  down  the  front  walk  with  a  slight 
stir  of  elation — a  feeling  that  had  come  to  be  an  in 
frequent  visitor  enough.  He  hoped  that  the  company 
would  be  not  only  predominantly  youthful,  but  ex 
clusively  so — aside  from  the  hostess  and  himself.  And 
even  she  often  had  her  young  days  and  her  young 
spots.  It  would  doubtless  be  clamorous ;  yet  clamor, 
understood  and  prepared  for,  might  be  met  with  com 
posure. 


CHAPTER  VI 
COPE  DINES— AND  TELLS  ABOUT  IT 

COPE  pushed  away  the  last  of  the  themes  and  put 
the  cork  back  in  the  red-ink  bottle.  Here  was  a  wit 
less  girl  who  seemed  to  think  that  Herrick  and  Cowper 
were  contemporaries.  The  last  sense  to  develop  in 
the  Western  void  was  apparently  the  sense  of  chronol 
ogy — unless,  indeed,  it  were  a  sense  for  the  shades  of 
difference  which  served  to  distinguish  between  one  age 
and  another  and  provided  the  raw  material  that  made 
chronology  a  matter  of  consequence  at  all. 

"If  there  were  only  one  more,"  muttered  Cope,  look 
ing  at  the  pile  of  sheets  under  the  gas-globe,  "I  should 
probably  learn  that  Chaucer  derived  from  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher." 

He  reached  up  and  jerked  the  gas-jet  to  a  different 
angle.  The  flame  lit,  through  its  nicked,  pale-pink 
globe,  a  bedroom  cramped  in  size  and  meagre  in  fur 
nishings  :  a  narrow  bed,  dressed  to  look  like  a  lounge ; 
two  stiff-backed  oak  chairs,  not  lately  varnished;  a 
bookshelf  overhead,  with  some  dozen  of  the  more  in 
dispensable  aids  to  our  tongue's  literature.  The  table 
at  which  he  sat  was  one  of  plain  deal,  covered  with 
some  Oriental-seeming  fabric  which  showed  here  and 
there  inkspots  that  antedated  his  own  pen.  He  threw 
up  this  covering  as  it  fell  over  the  front  edge  of  the 

55 


56  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

table,  pulled  out  a  drawer,  laid  a  sheet  of  paper  in 
the  bettered  light,  and  uncorked  a  black-ink  bottle. 

"Dear  Arthur,"  he  began. 

He  looked  across  to  the  other  chair,  with  its  broken 
spindles  and  obfuscated  varnish.  With  things  as  he 
wanted  them,  his  correspondent  would  be  sitting  there 
and  letter-writing  would  be  unnecessary. 

"Dear  Arthur,"  he  repeated  aloud,  and  set  him 
self  to  a  general  sketch  of  the  new  land  and  the  "lay" 
of  it. 

"Three-quarters  of  them  are  of  course  girls,"  he 
presently  found  himself  writing,  "which  is  the  com 
mon  proportion  almost  everywhere,  I  presume,  ex 
cept  in  engineering  and  dentistry.  However,  there 
are  four  or  five  men.  I've  been  pretty  careful,  and 
they  still  treat  me  with  respect.  I'm  afraid  my  course 
is  regarded  as  a  'snap.'  Everybody,  it  seems,  can 
grasp  English  literature  (and  produce  it).  And 
almost  anybody,  I  begin  to  fear,  can  teach  it.  Judg 
ing,  that  is,  from  the  pay.  I'm  afraid  the  good  folks 
at  Freeford  will  find  themselves  pinched  for  another 
year  still." 

He  glanced  across  toward  the  pile  of  corrected 
themes.  He  felt  that  not  everybody  was  "called," 
as  a  matter  of  course,  to  write  English,  and  he  stub 
bornly  nourished  the  belief  that  toiling  over  others' 
imperfections  was  more  of  a  job  than  boards  of  trus 
tees  always  realized. 

"Of  course,"  he  presently  resumed,  "things  are 
rather  changed  from  what  they  were  before.  I  find 
more  in  the  way  of  social  opportunities  and  greater 


COPE  DINES— AND  TELLS  ABOUT  IT      57 

interest  shown  by  the  middle-aged.  It  is  no  disad 
vantage  to  cultivate  people  who  have  their  own  homes ; 
the  lunch-rooms  round  the  fountain-square  are  numer 
ous  enough,  but  not  so  good  as  they  might  be.  And 
I  don't  know  but  that  an  instructor  may  lose  caste 
by  eating  among  a  miscellany  of  undergraduates. 
Anyhow,  it's  no  plan  to  pursue  for  long." 

He  sat  for  a  moment,  lost  in  thought  over  recent 
social  experiences. 

"One  very  good  house  has  lately  been  opened  to 
me,"  he  continued.  "I  dined  there  last  Thursday 
evening.  It's  really  quite  a  mansion — a  great  many 
large  rooms :  picture-gallery,  ball-room,  and  all  that ; 
and  the  dinner  itself  was  very  handsomely  done.  You 
know  my  theory, — a  theory  rather  forced  upon  me,  in 
truth,  by  circumstances, — that  the  best  way  to 
enjoy  a  good  meal  is  to  have  had  a  string  of  pooi; 
ones.  Well,  since  coming  back,  and  with  no  perma 
nent  arrangements  made,  I  have  had  plenty  of  chance 
for  getting  into  position  to  appreciate  the  really  first- 
class.  There  was  a  color-scheme  in  pale  pink — rib 
bons  of  that  color,  pink  icing  on  the  cakes,  and  so  on. 
The  same  thing  could  be  done,  and  done  charmingly, 
in  light  green — with  pistache  ice-cream.  Of  course 
the  candle-shades  were  pink  too." 

His  eye  wandered  toward  a  small  triangular  closet, 
made  off  from  the  room  by  a  flimsy  and  faded  calico- 
print  curtain. 

"I  had  my  dress-suit  cleaned  and  pressed,  but  the 
lapels  of  the  coat  came  out  rather  shiny,  and  I  thought 
it  better  to  hire  one  for  the  occasion.  There  was  no 


58  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

trouble  about  a  fit — I  have  standardized  shoulders,  as 
you  know. 

"Of  course  I  miss  you  all  the  time,  and  I  assuredly 
missed  you  just  here.  If  it  is  really  true,  as  you  write, 
that  you  are  holding  your  summer  gains  and  weigh 
twelve  pounds  more  than  you  did  at  the  end  of  June, 
and  if  you  are  thinking  of  getting  a  new  suit,  please 
bear  in  mind  that  my  own  won't  last  much  longer.  I 
have  the  chance,  now,  to  go  out  a  good  deal  and  to 
meet  influential,  worth-while  people.  In  the  circum 
stances  I  ask  you  not  to  bant.  One  rather  spare 
man  in  a  pair  of  men  is  enough. 

"My  hostess,  a  Mrs.  Phillips,  I  met  at  a  tea  during 
my  first  week.  This  tea  was  given  by  a  lady  in  the 
mathematical  department,  and  she  and  her  husband 
were  at  the  dinner.  They  are  people  in  the  early  or 
middle  thirties,  I  judge,  and  were  probably  put  in 
as  a  connecting  link  between  the  two  sections  of  the 
party.  Mrs.  Phillips  herself  is  a  rich  widow  of  forty- 
odd — forty-five  or  six,  possibly, — though  I  am  not 
the  very  best  judge  in  such  matters:  no  need  to  tell 
you  that,  on  such  a  point,  my  eye  and  my  general 
sense  are  none  too  acute.  The  only  other  middle-aged 
(or  elderly)  person  present  was  a  Mr.  Randolph,  who 
is  perhaps  fifty,  or  a  little  beyond,  yet  who  appears 
to  have  his  younger  moments.  There  were  some  girls, 
and  there  were  two  young  men  in  business  in  the  city 
— neighbors  and  not  connected  with  the  University  at 
all.  'For  which  relief,'  etc., — since  it  is  a  bit  benumb 
ing  to  move  in  academic  circles  exclusively ; — I  should 
hate  to  feel  that  a  really  professorial  manner  was 


COPE  DINES— AND  TELLS  ABOUT  IT      59 

stealing  over  me.  Well,  everybody  was  lively  and 
gay,  except  at  first  Ryder  (he's  the  math,  man)  ;  but 
even  he  limbered  up  finally.  Mrs.  Phillips  herself  has 
a  great  deal  of  action  and  vivacity — seemed  hardly 
more  than  thirty.  Well,  I  could  be  pretty  gay  too 
with  a  lot  of  money  behind  me;  and  I  think  that,  for 
another  year  or  so,  I  can  contrive  to  be  gay  without 
it.  But  after  that  .  .  . 

"I  wish  you  had  been  there  instead  of  Ryder.  If 
you  are  really  going  to  be  twenty-seven  in  November — 
as  I  figure  it— you  might  yourself  have  served  as  a 
connecting  link  between  youth  and  age.  No,  no ;  I 
take  it  back ;  I  didn't  mean  it.  I  wouldn't  have  you 
seem  older  for  anything,  and  you  know  it. 

"There  were  three  girls.  They  all  live  in  the  house 
itself,  forming  a  little  court:  Mrs.  P.  seems  to  need 
young  life  and  young  attentions.  So  not  one  of  them 
had  to  be  taken  home — there's  usually  that  to  do,  you 
know.  Not  that  it  would  have  mattered  much,  as  the 
distances  would  have  been  short  and  the  night  was 
clear  starlight.  But  they  could  all  stay  where  they 
were,  and  I  walked  home  in  quite  different  company." 

Cope  threw  back  his  Oriental  table-cover  once  more 
and  drew  out  a  few  additional  sheets  of  paper. 

"One  of  them  is  an  artist.  She  paints  portraits, 
and  possibly  other  things.  Oh,  I  was  going  to  say 
there  is  an  art-gallery  at  the  top  of  the  house.  Her 
husband — I  mean  Mrs.  Phillips' — was  a  painter  and 
collector  himself;  and  after  dinner  we  went  up  there, 
and  a  curious  man  came  in,  propelling  a  wheeled 
chair — a  sort  of  death's-head  at  the  feast. 


60  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

But  don't  let  me  get  too  far  away  from  the  matter 
in  hand.  She  is  dark  and  a  bit  tonguey — the  artist- 
girl  ;  and  I  believe  she  would  be  sarcastic  and  witty  if 
she  weren't  held  down  pretty  well.  I  think  she's  a 
niece:  the  relationship  leaves  her  free,  as  I  suppose 
she  feels,  to  express  herself.  If  you  like  the  type  you 
may  have  it;  but  wit  in  a  woman,  or  even  humor, 
always  makes  me  uncomfortable.  The  feminine  idea  of 
either  is  a  little  different  from  ours. 

"Another  girl  is  a  musician.  She  plays  the  violin — 
quite  tolerably.  Yes,  yes,  I  recall  your  views  about 
violin-playing:  it's  either  good  or  bad — nothing  be 
tween.  I'll  say  this,  then :  she  played  some  simple  and 
unpretentious  things  and  did  them  very  deftly.  Sim 
ple,  unpretentious :  oddest  thing  in  the  world,  for  she 
is  a  recent  graduate  of  our  school  of  music  and  began 
this  fall  as  an  instructor.  Wouldn't  you  have  ex 
pected  to  find  her  demanding  a  chance  to  perform  a 
sonata  at  the  least,  or  pining  miserably  for  a  concerto 
with  full  orchestra?  Well,  this  young  lady  I  put  down 
as  a  plain  boarder — you  can't  maintain  a  big  house 
on  memories  and  a  collection  of  paintings.  She's  a 
nice  child,  and  I  dare  say  makes  as  good  a  boarder  as 
any  nice  child  could. 

"The  third  girl — if  you  want  to  hear  any  more 
about  them — seems  to  be  a  secretary.  Think  of  having 
the  run  of  a  house  where  a  social  secretary  is  re 
quired!  I'm  sure  she  sends  out  the  invitations  and 
keeps  the  engagement-book.  Besides  all  that,  she 
writes  poetry — she  is  the  minstrel  of  the  court.  She 
does  verses  about  her  chatelaine — is  quite  the  mis- 


COPE  DINES— AND  TELLS  ABOUT  IT      61 

tress  of  self-respecting  adulation.  She  would  know 
the  difference  between  Herrick  and  Cowper!"  .  .  . 

Cope  pulled  out  his  watch.     Then  he  resumed. 

"It's  half  past  ten,  but  I  think  I'll  run  on  for  a 
few  moments  longer.  If  I  don't  finish,  I  can  wind  up 
to-morrow. — Mr.  Randolph  sat  opposite  me.  He 
looked  at  me  a  lot  and  gave  attention  to  whatever  I 
said — whether  said  to  him,  or  to  my  neighbors  right 
and  left,  or  to  the  whole  table.  I  didn't  feel  him 
especially  clever,  but  easy  and  pleasant — and  friendly. 
Also  a  little  shy — even  after  we  had  gone  up  to  the 
ball-room.  I'm  afraid  that  made  me  more  talkative 
than  ever;  you  know  how  shyness  in  another  man 
makes  me  all  the  more  confident  and  rackety.  Be  sure 
that  voice  of  mine  rang  out !  But  not  in  song.  There 
was  a  piano  up  stairs,  of  course,  and  that  led  to  a 
little  dancing.  Different  people  took  turns  in  playing. 
I  danced — once — with  each  of  the  three  girls,  and 
twice  with  my  hostess;  then  I  let  Ryder  and  the  two 
young  business-men  do  the  rest.  Randolph  danced 
once  with  Mrs.  Phillips,  and  that  ended  it  for  him. 
My  own  dancing,  as  you  know,  is  nothing  to  brag  of : 
I  think  the  young  ladies  were  quite  satisfied  with  the 
little  I  did.  I'm  sure  I  was.  You  also  know  my  views 
on  round  dances.  Why  dancing  should  be  done  ex 
clusively  by  couples  arranged  strictly  on  the  basis  of 
contrasted  sexes  .  .  . !  I  think  of  the  good  old 
days  of  the  Renaissance  in  Italy,  when  women,  if  they 
wanted  to  dance,  just  got  up  and  danced — alone,  or, 
if  they  didn't  want  to  dance  alone,  danced  together. 
I  like  to  see  soldiers  or  sailors  dance  in  pairs,  as  a 


62  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

straightforward  outlet  for  superfluous  physical 
energy.  Also,  peasants  in  a  ring — about  a  Maypole 
or  something.  Also,  I  very  much  like  square  dances 
and  reels.  There  were  enough  that  night  for  a  quad 
rille,  with  somebody  for  the  piano  and  even  somebody 
to  'call  off,' — but  whoever  sees  a  quadrille  in  these 
days?  However,  I  mustn't  burn  any  more  gas  on  this 
topic. 

"I  sat  out  several  dances  between  Mrs.  Phillips  and 
Mr.  Randolph.  He  thought  he  had  done  enough  for 
her,  and  she  thought  I  had  done  enough  for  them  all. 
And  one  of  the  young  business-men  did  enough  for 
that  springy,  still-young  Mrs.  Ryder.  Once,  indeed, 
Mrs.  Phillips  asked  me  if  I  wouldn't  like  to  try  a 
third  dance  with  her  (she  goes  at  it  with  a  good  deal 
of  old-time  vivacity  and  vim)  ;  but  I  told  her  she 
must  know  by  this  time  that  I  was  something  of  a 
bungler.  'I  wouldn't  quite  say  that,'  she  returned, 
smiling;  but  we  continued  to  sit  there  side  by  side  on 
a  sort  of  bench  built  against  the  wall,  and  she  seemed 
as  well  pleased  to  have  it  that  way  as  the  other.  She 
did,  however,  speak  about  a  little  singing.  I  told  her 
that  she  must  have  found  me  something  of  a  bungler 
there,  too,  and  reminded  her  that  I  couldn't  play  the 
accompaniments  of  my  best  songs  at  all.  Arthur,  my 
dear  boy,  I  depend  on  you  for  that,  and  you  must  come 
down  here  and  do  it. 

"No  singing,  then.  But  Mrs.  Phillips  was  not  quite 
satisfied.  Wouldn't  I  recite  something?  Heavens! 
Well,  of  course  I  know  lots  of  poems — c'est  mon 
metier.  I  repeated  one.  Then  other  volunteers  were 


COPE  DINES— AND  TELLS  ABOUT  IT      63 

called  upon — it  was  entertaining  with  a  vengeance ! 
The  young  ladies  had  to  chip  in  also — though  they, 
of  course,  were  prepared  to.  And  one  of  the  young 
business-men  did  some  clever  juggling;  and  Mrs. 
Ryder  sang  a  little  French  ballade;  and  Mr.  Ran 
dolph — poor  man ! — was  suddenly  routed  out  of  his 
placidity,  and  responded  as  well  as  he  could  with  one 
or  two  little  stories,  not  very  pointed  and  not  very 
well  told.  But  I  judge  he  makes  no  great  claim  to 
being  a  raconteur — he  was  merely  paying  an  unex 
pected  tax  as  gracefully  as  he  could. 

"Well,  as  I  was  saying,  the  man  in  the  wheeled  chair 
came  in.  Of  course  he  hadn't  been  down  to  dinner — I 
think  I  saw  a  tray  for  him  carried  along  the  hall. 
As  he  was  working  his  way  through  the  door,  I  sup 
pose  I  must  have  been  talking  and  laughing  at  my 
loudest ;  and  that  big,  bare  room,  done  in  hard  wood, 
made  me  seem  noisier  still.  He  sort  of  stopped  and 
twitched,  and  appeared  to  shrink  back  in  his  chair: 
I  presume  my  tones  went  straight  through  the  poor 
twisted  invalid's  head.  He  must  have  fancied  me  (  from 
the  racket  I  was  making)  as  a  sort  of  free-and-easy 
Hercules  (which  is  not  quite  the  case),  if  not  as  the 
whole  football  squad  rolled  into  one.  Whether  he 
really  saw  me,  then  or  thereafter,  I  don't  know;  he 
wore  a  sort  of  green  shade  over  his  eyes.  Of  course 
I  met  him  in  due  form.  I  tried  not  to  give  his  poor 
hand  too  much  of  a  wring  (another  of  my  bad  habits)  ; 
but  he  took  all  I  gave  and  even  seemed  to  hang  on 
for  a  little  more.  He  sat  quietly  to  one  side  for  a 
while,  and  I  tried  not  to  act  the  bull  of  Bashan  again. 


64  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

Anyhow,  he  didn't  start  a  second  time.  Presently 
he  pulled  out  rather  unceremoniously :  the  two  young 
business-men  had  begun  a  sort  of  burlesque  fandango, 
and  their  feet  were  pretty  noisy  on  the  bare  floor.  He 
started  off  after  looking  toward  the  piano  and  then 
toward  me ;  and  Mrs.  Phillips  glanced  about  as  if  to 
hint  that  any  display  of  surprise  or  of  indulgence 
would  be  misplaced.  Poor  chap! — well,  I'm  glad  he 
didn't  see  me  dancing. 

"We  broke  up  about  eleven,  and  Mr.  Randolph  sug 
gested  that,  as  we  lived  in  the  same  general  direction, 
we  might  walk  homeward  together.  Great  heaven ! 
it's  eleven — and  five  after — now !  Enough,  in  all  con 
science,  for  to-night.  You  shall  have  the  rest  to 


morrow." 


CHAPTER  VII 

COPE  UNDER  SCRUTINY 

AN  EVENING  or  two  later  Cope  again  corked  his  red 
ink  and  uncorked  his  black. 

"As  I  have  said,  Mr.  Randolph  and  I  walked  home 
together.  He  stopped  for  a  moment  in  front  of  his 
place.  Another  large,  handsome  house.  He  told  me 
he  had  the  use  of  his  quarters  as  long  as  his  landlord's 
lease  ran,  and  asked  me  to  come  round  some  time  and 
see  how  he  was  fixed.  Then  he  said  suddenly  that 
the  evening  was  fine  and  the  night  young  and  that  he 
would  walk  on  with  me  to  my  quarters,  if  I  didn't 
mind.  Of  course  I  didn't — he  seemed  so  friendly  and 
pleasant;  but  I  let  him  learn  for  himself  that  I  was 
far  from  being  lodged  in  any  architectural  monument. 
Well,  we  went  on  for  the  necessary  ten  minutes,  and 
he  didn't  seem  at  all  put  out  by  the  mediocre  aspect 
of  the  house  where  I  have  put  up.  He  sort  of  took 
it  all  for  granted — as  if  he  knew  about  it  already. 
In  fact,  on  the  way  from  his  place  to  mine,  I  no  more 
led  him  (as  I  sense  it  now)  than  he  led  me.  He  hesi 
tated  at  no  corner  or  crossing.  'I  am  an  old  Church- 
tonian,'  he  said  incidentally — as  if  he  knew  everything 
and  everybody.  He  also  mentioned,  just  as  incident 
ally,  that  he  had  a  brother-in-law  on  our  board  of 
trustees.  Of  course  I  promised  to  go  round  and  see 

65 


66  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

him.  I  presume  that  I  shall  drop  in  on  him  some  time 
or  other.  Come  down  here,  and  you  shall  have  one 
more  house  of  call. 

"He  stopped  for  a  moment  in  front  of  my  diggings, 
taking  my  hand  to  say  good  night  and  taking  his  own 
time  in  dropping  it.  Enough  is  enough.  'You  have 
the  small  change  needed  for  paying  your  way  through 
society,'  he  said,  with  a  sort  of  smile.  'I  must  cul 
tivate  a  few  little  arts  myself,5  he  went  on ;  'they  seem 
necessary  in  some  houses.  But  I'm  glad,  after  all, 
that  I  didn't  remember  to-night  that  a  tribute  was 
likely  to  be  levied ;  it  would  have  taken  away  my  appe 
tite  and  have  made  the  whole  evening  a  misery  in  ad 
vance.  As  things  went,  I  had,  on  the  whole,  a  pleasant 
time.  Only,  I  understood  that  you  sang;  and  I  was 
rather  hoping  to  hear  you.'  'I  do  best  with  my  regular 
accompanist,'  I  returned — meaning  you,  of  course. 
I  hope  you  don't  mind  being  degraded  to  that  level. 

'And   your    regular    accompanist    is    not — not ?' 

'Is  miles  away,'  I  replied.  'A  hundred  and  fifty  of 
them,'  I  might  have  added,  if  I  had  chosen  to  be 
specific.  Now,  if  he  had  wanted  to  hear  me,  why 
hadn't  he  asked?  He  would  have  needed  only  to 
second  Mrs.  Phillips  herself;  and  there  he  was,  just 
on  the  other  side  of  me.  In  consequence  of  his  reti 
cence  I  was  driven — or  drove  myself — to  blank  verse. 
And  that  other  man,  the  one  in  the  chair ;  he  may  have 
had  his  expectations  too.  Arthur,  Arthur,  try  to 
grasp  the  situation!  You  must  come  down  here,  and 
you  must  bring  your  hands  with  you.  Tell  the  bishop 
and  the  precentor  that  you  are  needed  elsewhere. 


COPE  UNDER  SCRUTINY  67 

They  will  let  you  off.  Of  course  I  know  that  a  village 
choir  needs  every  tenor  it  can  get — and  keep;  but 
come.  If  they  insist,  leave  your  voice  behind;  but 
do  bring  your  hands  and  your  reading  eye.  Don't  let 
me  go  along  making  my  new  circle  think  I'm  an  utter 
dub.  Tell  your  father  plainly  that  he  can  never  in 
the  world  make  a  wholesale-hardware-man  out  of  you. 
Force  him  to  listen  to  reason.  What  is  one  year  spent 
in  finding  out  just  what  you  are  fit  for?  Come  along; 
I  miss  you  like  the  devil;  nobody  does  my  things  as 
sympathetically  as  you  do.  Give  up  your  old  anthems 
and  your  old  tinware  and  tenpennies  and  come  along. 
I  can  bolt  from  this  hole  at  a  week's  notice,  and  we 
can  go  into  quarters  together:  a  real  bed  instead  of 
an  upholstered  shelf,  and  a  closet  big  enough  for  two 
wardrobes  (if  mine  really  deserves  the  name).  We 
could  get  our  own  breakfast,  and  you  could  take  a 
course  in  something  or  other  till  you  found  out  just 
what  the  Big  Town  could  do  for  you.  In  any  event 
you  would  be  bearing  me  company,  and  your  company 
is  what  I  need.  So  pack  up  and  appear." 

The  delay  in  the  posting  of  this  appeal  soon 
brought  from  Winnebago  a  letter  outside  the  usual 
course  of  correspondence.  It  was  on  a  fresh  sheet 
and  under  a  new  date-line  that  Cope  continued.  After 
a  page  of  generalities  and  of  attention  to  particular 
points  in  the  letter  from  Wisconsin,  Cope  took  up  his 
own  line  of  thought. 

"I  had  meant,  of  course,  to  look  in  on  him  within  a 
few  days, — no  great  hurry  about  it.  But  on  Sunday 
evening  he  wrote  and  asked  if  he  might  not  call  round 


68  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

on  me  instead.  My  name  is  not  in  the  telephone-book ; 
neither,  as  I  found  out,  was  his.  So  I  used  up  a  sheet 
of  paper,  an  envelope,  and  a  stamp — just  such  as  I 
am  now  using  on  you — to  tell  him  that  he  might  indeed. 
I  put  in  the  'indeed'  for  cordiality,  hoping  he 
wouldn't  think  I  had  slighted  his  invitation.  On  Mon 
day  evening  he  came  round — I  must  have  reached  him 
by  the  late  afternoon  delivery.  Need  I  say  that  he 
had  to  take  this  poor  place  as  he  found  it?  But  there 
was  no  sign  of  the  once-over — no  tendency  to  inven 
tory  or  appraise.  He  sat  down  beside  me  on  the 
couch  just  as  if  he  had  no  notion  that  it  was  a  bed 
(and  a  rather  rocky  one,  at  that),  and  talked  about 
my  row  of  books,  and  about  music  and  plays,  and  about 
his  own  collection  of  curios — all  in  a  quiet,  contained 
Wa7>  yet  intent  on  me  if  not  on  my  outfit.  Well,  it's 
pleasant  to  be  considered  for  what  you  are  rather 
than  for  what  you  have  (or  for  what  few  poor  sticks 
your  landlady  may  have)  ;  and  I  rather  liked  his  being 
here.  Certainly  he  was  a  change  from  my  students, 
who  sometimes  seem  to  exclude  better  timber. 

"Needless  to  say,  he  repeated  his  invitation,  and 
last  evening  I  shunted  Middle  English  (in  which  I 
have  a  lot  to  catch  up)  and  walked  round  to  him. 
Very  adequately  and  handsomely  lodged.  Really  good 
bachelor  quarters  (I  hadn't  known  for  certain  whether 
he  was  married  or  not).  A  stockbroker  of  a  sort,  I 
hear, — but  not  enough  to  hurt,  I  should  guess.  He 
has  a  library  and  a  sitting-room.  Like  me,  he  sleeps 
three-quarters,  but  he  doesn't  have  to  sit  on  his  bed  in 
the  daytime.  And  he  has  a  bathrobe  of  just  the  sort 


COPE  UNDER  SCRUTINY  69 

I  shall  have,  when  I  can  afford  it.  He  has  got  to 
gether  a  lot  of  knick-knacks  and  curios,  but  takes 
them  lightly.  'Sorry  I've  only  one  big  arm-chair,' 
he  said,  handing  me  his  cigarette-case  and  settling  me 
down  in  comfort;  'but  I  entertain  very  seldom.  I 
should  like  to  be  hospitable,'  he  went  on;  ' — I  really 
think  it's  in  me;  but  that's  pretty  much  out  of  the 
question  here.  I  have  no  chef,  no  dining-room  of  my 
own,  no  ballroom,  certainly.  .  .  .  Perhaps,  be 
fore  very  long,  I  shall  have  to  make  a  change.' 

"He  asked  me  about  Freeford,  and  I  didn't  realize 
until  I  was  on  my  way  back  that  he  had  assumed  my 
home  town  just  as  he  had  assumed  my  lodging.  Well, 
all  right;  I  never  resent  a  friendly  interest.  He  sat 
in  a  less-easy  chair  and  blew  his  smoke-rings  and  won 
dered  if  I  had  been  a  small-town  boy.  'I'm  one,  too,' 
he  said;  ' — at  least  Churchton,  forty  years — at  least 
Churchton,  thirty  years  ago,  was  not  all  it  is  to-day. 
It  has  always  had  its  own  special  tone,  of  course ;  but 
in  my  young — in  my  younger  days  it  was  just  a  large 
country  village.  Fewer  of  us  went  into  town  to  make 
money,  or  to  spend  it.' 

"And  then  he  asked  me  to  go  into  town,  one  evening 
soon,  and  help  him  spend  some.  He  suggested  it 
rather  shyly;  a  tdtons,  I  will  say — though  French  is 
not  my  business.  He  offered  a  dinner  at  a  restaurant, 
and  the  theatre  afterwards.  Did  I  accept?  Indeed 
I  did.  Think,  Arthur!  after  all  the  movies  and  res 
taurants  round  the  elms  and  the  fountain  (tho'  you 
don't  know  them  yet)  !  I  will  say,  too,  that  his  ciga 
rettes  were  rather  better  than  my  own.  .  .  . 


70  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

"I  suppose  he  is  fully  fifty;  but  he  has  his  young 
days,  I  can  see.  Certainly  his  age  doesn't  obtrude, — 
doesn't  bother  me  at  all,  though  he  sometimes  seems 
conscious  of  it  himself.  He  wears  eye-glasses  part  of 
the  time, — for  dignity,  I  presume.  He  had  them  on 
when  I  came  in,  but  they  disappeared  almost  at  once, 
and  I  saw  them  no  more. 

"He  asked  me  about  my  degree, — though  I  didn't 
remember  having  spoken  of  it.  I  couldn't  but  mention 
'Shakespeare' — as  the  word  goes;  and  you  know  that 
when  I  mention  him,  it  always  makes  the  other  man 
mention  Bacon.  He  did  mention  Bacon,  and  smiled. 
'I've  studied  the  cipher,'  he  said.  'All  you  need  to 
make  it  go  is  a  pair  of  texts — a  long  one  and  a  short 
one — and  two  fonts  of  type,  or  their  equivalent  in  pen 
manship.  Two  colors  of  ink,  for  example.  You  can 
put  anything  into  anything.  See  here.'  He  reached 
up  to  a  shelf  and  brought  down  a  thin  brown  square 
note-book.  'Here's  the  alphabet,'  he  said;  'and  here' 
— opening  a  little  beyond — 'is  my  use  of  it:  one  of  my 
earliest  exercises.  I  have  put  the  first  stanza  of  "An 
nabel  Lee"  into  the  second  chapter  of  "Tom  Jones."  ' 
He  ignored  the  absent  eye-glasses  and  picked  out  the 
red  letters  from  the  black  with  perfect  ease.  'Simplest 
thing  in  the  world,'  he  went  on;  'anybody  can  do  it. 
All  it  needs  is  time  and  patience  and  care.  And  if 
you  happen  to  be  waggishly  or  fraudulently  inclined 
you  can  give  yourself  considerable  entertainment — 
and  can  entertain  or  puzzle  other  people  later.  You 
don't  really  believe  that  "Bacon  wrote  Shakespeare"?' 

"Of   course   I   don't,   Arthur, — as   you   very   well 


COPE  UNDER  SCRUTINY  71 

know.  I  picked  out  the  first  line  of  'Annabel  Lee'  by 
arranging  the  necessary  groupings  among  the  odd 
mixture  of  black  and  red  letters  he  exhibited,  and  told 
him  I  didn't  believe  that  Bacon  wrote  Shakespeare — 
nor  that  Shakespeare  did  either.  'Who  did,  then?'  he 
naturally  asked.  I  told  him  that  I  would  grant,  at 
the  start  and  for  a  few  seasons,  a  group  of  young 
noblemen  and  young  gentlemen ;  but  that  some  one 
of  them  (supposing  there  to  have  been  more  than 
that  one)  soon  distanced  all  the  rest  and  presently 
became  the  edifice  before  which  the  manager  from 
Stratford  was  only  the  fa9ade.  He — this  'someone' 
— was  a  noble  and  a  man  of  wide  reach  both  in  his 
natural  endowments  and  in  his  acquired  culture.  But 
he  couldn't  dip  openly  into  the  London  cesspool;  he 
had  his  own  quality  to  safeguard  against  the  contam 
ination  of  a  new  and  none  too  highly-regarded  trade. 
'I  don't  care  for  your  shillings,'  he  said  to  Shaxper, 
'nor  for  the  printed  plays  afterward;  but  I  do  value 
your  front  and  your  footing  and  the  services  they 
can  render  me  on  my  way  to  self-expression.'  He  was 
an  earl,  or  something  such,  with  a  country-seat  in 
Warwick,  or  on  the  borders  of  Gloucestershire ;  'and  if 
I  only  had  a  year  and  the  money  to  make  a  journey 
among  the  manor-houses  of  mid-England,'  I  said,  'and 
to  dig  for  a  while  in  their  muniment-rooms  .  .  .' 
Well,  you  get  the  idea,  all  right  enough. 

"He  came  across  and  sat  on  the  arm  of  the  big 
easy-chair.  'If  you  went  over  there  and  discovered  all 
that,  the  English  scholars  would  never  forgive  you.' 
As  of  course  they  wouldn't :  look  at  the  recent  Shaxper 


72  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

discoveries  by  Americans  in  London!  'And  wouldn't 
that  be  a  rather  sensational  thesis,'  he  went  on,  'from 
a  staid  candidate  for  an  M.  A.,  or  a  Ph.  D.,  or  a  Litt. 
D.,  or  whatever  it  is  you're  after?'  It  would,  of  a 
verity;  and  why  shouldn't  it  be?  'Don't  go  over 
there,'  he  ended  with  a  smile,  as  he  dropped  his  hand 
on  my  shoulder;  'your  friends  would  rather  have  you 
here.'  'Never  fear !'  I  returned ;  'I  can't  possibly  man 
age  it.  I  shall  just  do  something  on  "The  Disjunctive 
Conjunctions  in  'Paradise  Lost,'  "  and  let  it  go  at 
that!' 

"He  got  up  to  reach  for  the  ash-receiver.  'They 
tell  me,'  he  said,  'that  a  degree  isn't  much  in  itself — 
just  an  etape  on  the  journey  to  a  better  professional 
standing.'  'Yes,'  said  I,  ' — and  to  better  professional 
rewards.  It  means  so  many  more  hundreds  of  dollars 
a  year  in  pay.'  But  you  know  all  about  that,  too. 

"I'm  glad  your  dramatic  club  is  getting  forward 
so  well  with  the  rehearsals  for  its  first  drive  of  the 
season;  glad  too  that,  this  time  at  least,  they  have 
given  you  a  good  part.  Tell  me  all  about  it  before  the 
big  stars  in  town  begin  to  dim  your  people  in  my  eyes 
— and  in  your  own ;  and  don't  let  them  cast  you  for  the 
next  performance  in  January.  You  will  be  here  by 
then. 

"Yours, 

"B.  L.  C." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

COPE  UNDERTAKES  AN  EXCURSION 

Two  or  three  days  later,  Randolph  met  Medora 
Phillips  in  front  of  the  bank.  This  was  a  neat  and 
solemn  little  edifice  opposite  the  elms  and  the  foun 
tain  ;  it  was  neighbored  by  dry-goods  stores,  the  offices 
of  renting  agencies,  and  the  restaurants  where  the  un- 
fraternized  undergraduates  took  their  daily  chances. 
Through  its  door  passed  tradesmen's  clerks  with  de 
posits,  and  young  housewives  with  babies  in  peram 
bulators,  and  students  with  their  small  financial  prob 
lems,  and  members  of  the  faculty  about  to  cash  large 
or  small  checks.  Mrs.  Phillips  had  come  across  from 
the  dry-goods  store  to  pick  up  her  monthly  sheaf  of 
vouchers, — it  was  the  third  of  October. 

"Don't  you  want  to  come  in  for  a  minute?"  she 
asked  Randolph.  "Then  you  can  walk  on  with  me  to 
the  stationer's.  Carolyn  tells  me  that  our  last  batch 
of  invitations  reduced  us  to  nothing.  How  did  your 
dinner  go?" 

Randolph  followed  her  into  the  cool  marble  in 
terior.  "Oh,  in  town,  you  mean?  Quite  well,  I  think. 
I'm  sure  my  young  man  took  a  good  honest  appetite 
with  him !" 

"I  know.  We  don't  do  half  enough  for  these  poor 
boys." 

78 


74  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

"Yes,  he  rose  to  the  food.  But  not  to  the  drinks. 
I  took  him,  after  all,  to  my  club.  I  innocently  sug 
gested  cocktails ;  but,  no.  He  declined — in  a  deft  but 
straightforward  way.  Country  principles.  Small 
town  morals.  He  made  me  feel  like  a — well,  like  a 
corrupter  of  youth." 

"You  didn't  mind,  though, — of  course  you  didn't. 
You  liked  it.  Wasn't  it  noble !  Wasn't  it  charming ! 
So  glad  that  we  had  nothing  but  Apollinaris  and 
birch  beer!  Still,  it  would  have  been  a  pleasure  to 
hear  him  refuse." 

The  receiving-teller  gave  her  her  vouchers.  She 
put  them  in  her  handbag  and  somehow  got  round  a 
perambulator,  and  the  two  went  out  on  the  street. 

"And  how  did  your  'show'  go?"  she  continued. 
"That's  about  as  much  as  we  can  call  the  drama  in 
these  days." 

"That,  possibly,  didn't  go  quite  so  well.  I  took  him 
to  a  'comedy,' — as  they  nowadays  call  their  mixture 
of  farce  and  funniment.  'Comedy' ! — I  wish  Meredith 
could  have  seen  it !  Well,  he  laughed  a  little,  here  and 
there, — obligingly,  I  might  say.  But  there  was  no 
'chew'  in  the  thing  for  him, — nothing  to  fill  his  in 
tellectual  maw.  He's  a  serious  youngster,  after  all, — 
exuberant  as  he  seems.  I  felt  him  appraising  me  as  a 
gay  old  irresponsible.  .  .  ." 

"  'Old' — you  are  not  to  use  that  word.  Come,  don't 
say  that  he — that  he  venerated  you!" 

"Oh,  not  at  all.  During  the  six  hours  we  were 
together — train,  club,  theatre,  and  train  again — he 
never  once  called  me  'sir' ;  he  never  once  employed  our 


COPE  UNDERTAKES  AN  EXCURSION   75 

clumsy,  repellent  Anglo-Saxon  mode  of  address,  'mis 
ter';  in  fact,  he  never  employed  any  mode  of  address 
at  all.  He  got  round  it  quite  cleverly, — on  system,  as 
I  soon  began  to  perceive;  and  not  for  a  moment  did 
he  forget  that  the  system  was  in  operation.  He  used, 
straight  through,  a  sort  of  generalized  manner — 1 
might  have  been  anywhere  between  twenty  and  sixty- 
five." 

They  were  now  in  front  of  the  stationer's  show- 
window,  and  there  were  few  people  in  the  quiet  thor 
oughfare  to  jostle  them. 

Medora  smiled. 

"How  clever;  how  charming!"  she  said.  "Leaving 
you  altogether  free  to  pick  your  own  age.  I  hope 
you  didn't  go  beyond  thirty-five.  You  must  have  been 
quite  charming  in  your  early  thirties." 

"That's  kind  of  you,  I'm  sure;  but  I  don't  believe 
that  I  was  ever  'charming'  at  any  age.  I  think  you've 
used  that  word  once  too  often.  I  was  a  quiet,  studious 
lad,  with  nice  notions,  but  possibly  something  of  a 
prig.  I  was  less  'charming'  than  correct.  The  young 
ladies  had  the  greatest  confidence  in  me, — not  one  of 
them  Wi  s  ever  'afraid'." 

"Why,  how  horrid!  How  utterly  unsatisfactory! 
Nor  their  mothers?" 

"No.  And  I'm  still  single,  as  you're  advised.  And 
I'm  not  sure  that  the  young  gentlemen  cared  much 
more  for  me.  If  I  had  had  a  little  more  'gimp'  and 
verve,  I  might  have  equalled  the  particular  young  gen 
tleman  of  whom  we  have  been  discoursing.  But 


76  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

His  obviously  artificial  style  of  speech  concealed, 
as  she  guessed,  some  real  feeling. 

"Oh,  if  you  insist  on  disparaging  yourself    .     .     . !" 

"I  was  quite  as  coolly  correct  as  I  apprehend  him 
to  be;  and  if  I  could  only  have  contrived  to  compass 
the  charming,  as  well,  who  knows  what ?" 

"You  don't  like  my  word.  Is  there  a  better,  a  more 
suitable?" 

"No.     You  have  the  mot  juste.'9 

He  threw  a  finger  through  the  wide  pane  of  glass. 
"Is  that  the  sort  of  thing  you  are  after?  Those  boxes 
of  pale  gray  are  rather  good." 

"I  never  buy  from  the  show-window.  Come  in,  and 
help  me  choose." 

"I  love  to  shop,"  he  said,  in  a  mock  ecstasy.  "With 
others,"  he  added.  "I  like  to  follow  money  in — and  to 
contribute  taste  and  experience." 

Over  the  stationer's  counter  she  said : 

"Save  Sunday.    We  are  going  out  to  the  sand-hills." 

"Thank  you.     Very  well.     Most  glad  to." 

"And  you  are  to  bring  him." 

"Him?" 

"Bertram  Cope." 

"Why,  I've  given  him  six  hours  within  two  or  three 
days.  And  now  you're  asking  me  to  give  him  six 
teen." 

"Sixteen — or  more.  But  you're  not  giving  them 
to  him.  You're  giving  them  to  all  of  us.  You're  giv 
ing  them  to  me.  The  day  is  likely  to  be  fine  and 
settled,  and  I'd  recommend  your  catching  the  8:30 
train.  I  shall  have  my  full  load  in  the  car.  And  more, 


COPE  UNDERTAKES  AN  EXCURSION       77 

if  I  have  to  take  along  Helga.  Try  to  reach  us  by 
one,  or  a  quarter  past." 

Mrs.  Phillips  had  lately  taken  on  a  house  among 
the  sand  dunes  beyond  the  state  line.  This  singular 
region  had  recently  acquired  so  wide  a  reputation  for 
utter  neglect  and  desolation  that — despite  its  distance 
from  town,  whether  in  miles  or  in  hours — no  one  could 
quite  afford  to  ignore  it.  Picnics,  pageants,  encamp 
ments  and  excursions  all  united  in  proclaiming  its  re 
moteness,  its  silence,  its  vacuity.  Along  the  rim  of 
ragged  slopes  which  put  a  term  to  the  hundreds  of 
miles  of  water  that  spread  from  the  north,  people 
tramped,  bathed,  canoed,  motored  and  week-ended. 
Within  a  few  seasons  Duneland  had  acquired  as  great 
a  reputation  for  "prahlerische  Dunkelheit" — for  os 
tentatious  obscurity — as  ever  was  enjoyed  even  by 
Schiller's  Wallenstein.  "Lovers  of  Nature"  and 
"Friends  of  the  Landscape"  moved  through  its  distant 
and  inaccessible  purlieus  in  squads  and  cohorts.  Ev 
erybody  had  to  spend  there  at  least  one  Sunday  in 
the  summer  season.  There  were  enthusiasts  whose  in 
terest  ran  from  March  to  November.  There  were 
fanatics  who  insisted  on  trips  thitherward  in  January. 
And  there  were  one  or  two  super-fanatics — ranking 
ahead  even  of  the  fishermen  and  the  sand-diggers — 
who  clung  to  that  weird  and  changing  region  the  whole 
year  through. 

Medora  Phillips'  house  was  several  miles  beyond 
the  worst  of  the  hurly-burly.  There  were  no  tents  in 
sight,  even  in  August.  Nor  was  the  honk  of  the  motor- 
horn  heard  even  during  the  most  tumultuous  Sundays. 


78  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

The  spot  was  harder  to  reach  than  most  others  along 
the  twenty  miles  of  nicked  and  ragged  brim  which 
helped  enclose  the  wide  blue  area  of  the  Big  Water, 
but  was  better  worth  while  when  you  got  there.  Her 
little  tract  lay  beyond  the  more  prosaic  reaches  that 
were  furnished  chiefly  in  the  light  green  of  deciduous 
trees;  it  was  part  of  a  long  stretch  thickly  set  for 
miles  with  the  dark  and  sombre  green  of  pines.  Our 
nature-lover  had  taken,  the  year  before,  a  neglected 
and  dilapidated  old  farmhouse  and  had  made  it  into 
what  her  friends  and  habitues  liked  to  call  a  bungalow. 
The  house  had  been  put  up — in  the  rustic  spirit  which 
ignores  all  considerations  of  landscape  and  outlook — 
behind  a  well-treed  dune  which  allowed  but  the  merest 
glimpse  of  the  lake;  however,  a  walk  of  six  or  eight 
minutes  led  down  to  the  beach,  and  in  the  late  after 
noon  the  sun  came  with  grand  effect  across  the  gilded 
water  and  through  the  tall  pine-trunks  which  bordered 
the  zig-zag  path.  Medora  had  added  a  sleeping-porch, 
a  dining-porch  and  a  lean-to  for  the  car ;  and  she  en 
tertained  there  through  the  summer  lavishly,  even  if 
intermittently  and  casually. 

"No  place  in  the  world  like  it!"  she  would  declare 
enthusiastically  to  the  yet  inexperienced  and  there 
fore  the  still  unconverted.  "The  spring  arrives  weeks 
ahead  of  our  spring  in  town,  and  the  fall  lingers  on  for 
weeks  after.  Come  to  our  shore,  where  the  fauna  and 
flora  of  the  whole  country  meet  in  one.  All  the  wild 
birds  pass  in  their  migrations  ;  and  the  flowers  !"  Then 
she  would  expatiate  on  the  trailing  arbutus  in  April, 
and  the  vast  sheets  of  pale  blue  lupines  in  early  June, 


COPE  UNDERTAKES  AN  EXCURSION       79 

and  the  yellow,  sunlike  blossoms  of  the  prickly-pear 
in  July,  and  the  red  glories  of  painter's-brush  and 
bittersweet  and  sumach  in  September.  "No  wonder," 
she  would  say,  "that  they  have  to  distribute  hand 
bills  on  the  excursion-trains  asking  people  to  leave 
the  flowers  alone !" 

"How  shocking !"  Cope  had  cried,  with  his  resonant 
laugh,  when  this  phase  of  the  situation  was  brought 
to  his  attention.  "Are  the  automobile  people  any 
better?" 

Randolph  had  told  him  of  some  of  the  other  draw 
backs  involved  in  the  excursion.  "It's  a  long  way  to 
go,  even  when  you  pass  up  the  trolley  and  make  a 
single  big  bolt  by  train.  And  it  leads  through  an  in 
dustrial  region  that  it  mighty  unprepossessing — little 
beauty  until  almost  the  end.  And  even  when  you  get 
there,  it  may  all  seem  a  slight  and  simple  affair  for 
the  time  and  trouble  taken — unless  you  really  like 
Nature.  And  lastly,"  he  said,  with  a  sidelong  glance 
at  Cope,  "you  may  find  yourself,  as  the  day  wears  on, 
getting  a  little  too  much  of  my  company." 

"Oh,  I  hope  that  doesn't  mean,"  returned  Cope,  with 
another  ingenuous  unchaining  of  his  native  resonance, 
"that  you  are  afraid  of  getting  a  little  too  much  of 
mine !  I'm  fond  of  novelty,  and  nobody  can  frighten 
me." 

"If  that's  the  case,  let's  get  away  as  early  in  the 
day  as  we  can.  Breakfasts,  of  course,  are  late  in 
every  household  on  Sunday.  So  let's  meet  at  the 
Maroon-and-Purple  Tavern  at  seven-thirty,  and  make 
a  flying  start  at  eight." 


80  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

Sunday  morning  came  clear  and  calm  and  warm  to 
the  town, — a  belated  September  day,  or  possibly  an 
early  intimation  of  Indian  summer, — and  it  promised 
to  be  even  more  delightful  in  the  favored  region  toward 
which  our  friends  were  journeying.  After  they  had 
cleared  many  miles  of  foundries  and  railroad  crossings, 
and  had  paralleled  for  a  last  half-hour  a  distant  suc 
cession  of  sandhills,  wooded  or  glistening  white,  they 
were  set  down  at  a  small  group  of  farmhouses,  with 
a  varied  walk  of  five  miles  before  them.  Half  a  mile 
through  a  shaded  country  lane;  another  half-mile 
along  a  path  that  led  across  low,  damp  ground  through 
thickets  of  hazel  and  brier;  a  third  half-mile  over  a 
light  soil,  increasingly  sandy,  beneath  oaks  and  lindens 
and  pines  which  cloaked  the  outlines  of  the  slopes 
ahead;  and  finally  a  great  mound  of  pure  sand  that 
slanted  up  into  a  blue  sky  and  made  its  own  horizon. 

"We've  taken  things  easy,"  said  Randolph,  who  had 
been  that  way  before,  "and  I  hope  we  have  enough 
breath  left  for  our  job.  There  it  lies,  right  in  front 
of  us." 

"No  favor  asked  here,"  declared  Cope.  He  gave  a 
sly,  sidewise  glance,  as  if  to  ask  how  the  other  might 
stand  as  to  leg-muscles  and  wind. 

"Up  we  go,"  said  Randolph. 


CHAPTER  IX 

COPE  ON  THE  EDGE  OF  THINGS 

THE  ADVENTURER  in  Duneland  hardly  knows,  as  he 
works  his  way  through  one  of  the  infrequent  "blow 
outs,"  whether  to  thank  Nature  for  her  aid  or  to  tax 
her  with  her  cruelty.  She  offers  few  other  means  of 
reaching  the  water  save  for  these  nicks  in  the  edges  of 
the  great  cup;  yet  it  is  possible  enough  to  view  her 
as  a  careless  and  reckless  handmaiden  busily  devastat 
ing  the  cosmical  china-closet.  The  "blow-out"  is  a 
tragedy,  and  the  cause  of  further  tragedy.  The  north 
winds,  in  the  impetus  gathered  through  a  long,  un 
impeded  flight  over  three  hundred  miles  of  water,  cease 
lessly  try  and  test  the  sandy  bulwarks  for  a  slightest 
opening.  The  flaw  once  found,  the  work  of  devasta 
tion  and  desolation  begins ;  and,  once  begun,  it  con 
tinues  without  cessation.  Every  hurricane  cuts  a 
wider  and  deeper  gash,  fills  the  air  with  clouds  of  loose 
sand,  and  gives  sinister  addition  to  the  white  shifting 
heaps  and  fields  that  steal  slowly  yet  unrelentingly 
over  the  green  hinterland  of  forest  which  lies  below 
the  southern  slopes.  Trees  yet  to  die  stand  in  passive 
bands  at  their  feet ;  the  stark,  black  trunks  of  trees 
long  dead  rise  here  and  there  in  spots  where  the  sand- 
glacier  has  done  its  work  of  ruin  and  passed  on. 

After  some  moments  of  scrambling  and  panting  our 
81 


82  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

two  travelers  gained  the  divide.  Below  them  sloped 
a  great  amphitheatre  of  sand,  falling  in  irregular  gra 
dations  ;  and  at  the  foot  of  all  lay  the  lake,  calmly 
azure,  with  its  horizon,  whether  near  or  far — for  it 
was  almost  impossible  to  say — mystically  vague.  On 
either  hand  rose  other  hills  of  sand,  set  with  sparse 
pines  and  covered,  in  patches,  with  growths  of  wild 
grape,  the  fruit  half  ripened.  Within  the  amphi 
theatre,  at  various  levels,  rose  grimly  a  few  stumps 
and  shreds  of  cedars  long  dead  and  long  indifferent 
to  the  future  ravages  of  the  enemy.  The  whole  scene 
was,  to-day,  plausibly  gentle  and  inert.  It  was  indeed 
a  bridal  of  earth  and  sky,  with  the  self-contained 
approval  of  the  blue  deep  and  no  counter-assertion 
from  any  demon  wind. 

"So  far,  so  good,"  said  Randolph,  taking  off  his 
hat,  wiping  his  forehead,  and  breathing  just  a  little 
harder  than  he  liked.  "The  rest  of  our  course  is  plain : 
down  these  slopes,  and  then  a  couple  of  miles  along 
the  shore.  Easy  walking,  that;  a  mere  promenade  on 
a  boulevard." 

Cope  stood  on  the  height,  and  tossed  his  bare  head 
like  a  tireless  young  colt.  The  sun  fell  bright  on  his 
mane  of  yellow  hair.  He  took  in  a  deep  breath.  "It's 
good !"  he  declared.  "It's  great !  And  the  water 
looks  better  yet.  Shall  we  make  it  in  a  rush?" 

He  began  to  plunge  down  the  long,  broken  sand- 
slope.  Each  step  was  worth  ten.  Randolph  followed 
— with  judgment,  He  would  not  seem  young  enough 
to  be  a  competitor,  nor  yet  old  enough  to  be  a  drag. 
On  the  shore  he  wiped  and  panted  a  little  more — but 


COPE  ON  THE  EDGE  OF  THINGS          83 

not  to  the  point  of  embarrassment,  and  still  less  to  the 
point  of  mortification.  After  all,  he  was  keeping  up 
pretty  well. 

At  the  bottom  Cope,  with  his  shoes  full  of  sand, 
turned  round  and  looked  up  the  slope  down  which 
his  companion  was  coming.  He  waved  his  arms.  "It's 
almost  as  fine  from  here !"  he  cried. 

The  beach,  once  gained,  was  in  sight  both  ways  for 
miles.  Not  a  human  habitation  was  visible,  nor  a 
human  being.  Two  or  three  gulls  flew  a  little  out 
from  shore,  and  the  tracks  of  a  sandpiper  led  from 
the  wet  shingle  to  the  first  fringe  of  sandgrass  higher 
up. 

"Where  are  the  crowds?"  asked  Cope,  with  a  sonor 
ous  shout. 

"Miles  behind,"  replied  Randolph.  "We  haven't 
come  this  long  distance  to  meet  them  after  all.  Be 
sides,"  he  continued,  looking  at  his  watch,  "this  is 
not  the  time  of  day  for  them.  At  twelve-fifteen  peo 
ple  are  not  strolling  or  tramping;  they're  thinking 
of  their  dinner.  We  have  a  full  hour  or  more  for 
making  less  than  two  easy  miles  before  we  reach 
ours" 

"No  need  to  hurry,  then." 

The  beach,  at  its  edge,  was  firm,  and  they  strolled 
on  for  half  a  mile  and  cooled  off  as  they  went.  The 
air  was  mild;  the  noonday  sun  was  warm;  both  of 
them  had  taken  off  their  coats. 

They  sat  down  under  a  clump  of  basswoods,  the 
only  trees  beyond  the  foot  of  the  sand-slope,  and 
looked  at  the  water. 


84,  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

"It's  like  a  big,  useless  bathtub,"  observed  Ran 
dolph. 

"Not  so  much  useless  as  unused." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  the  season  is  as  good  as  over, — 
though  this  end  of  the  lake  stays  warm  longer  than 
most  other  parts." 

"It  isn't  so  much  the  warmth  of  the  water,"  re 
marked  Cope  sententiously.  "It's  more  the  warmth 
of  the  air." 

"Well,  the  air  seems  warm  enough.  After  all,  the 
air  and  the  sun  are  about  the  best  part  of  a  swim. 
Do  you  want  to  go  in?" 

Cope  rose,  walked  to  the  edge  of  the  water,  and  put 
in  a  finger  or  two.  "Well,  it  might  be  warmer;  but, 
as  I  say  .  .  ." 

"We  could  try  a  ten-minute  dip.  That  would  get 
us  to  our  dinner  in  good  time  and  in  good  trim." 

"All  right.     Let's,  then." 

"Only,  you'll  have  to  do  most  of  the  swimming," 
said  Randolph.  "My  few  small  feats  are  all  accom 
plished  pretty  close  to  shore." 

"Never  mind.  Company's  the  thing.  A  fellow  finds 
it  rather  slow,  going  in  alone." 

Cope  whisked  off  his  clothes  with  incredible  rapid 
ity  and  piled  them — or  flung  them — under  the  bass- 
woods:  the  suddenly  resuscitated  technique  of  the 
small-town  lad  who  could  take  avail  of  any  pond  or 
any  quiet  stretch  of  river  on  the  spur  of  the  moment. 
He  waded  in  quickly  up  to  his  waist,  and  then  took 
an  intrepid  header.  His  lithe  young  legs  and  arms 
threw  themselves  about  hither  and  yon.  After  a  mo- 


COPE  ON   THE  EDGE  OF  THINGS          85 

ment  or  two  he  got  on  his  feet  and  made  his  way  back 
across  a  yard  of  fine  shingle  to  the  sand  itself.  He 
was  sputtering  and  gasping,  and  the  long  yellow  hair, 
which  usually  lay  in  a  flat  clean  sweep  from  forehead 
to  occiput,  now  sprawled  in  a  grotesque  pattern  round 
his  temples. 

"B-r-r!  It  is  cold,  sure  enough.  But  jump  in. 
The  air  will  be  all  right.  I'll  be  back  with  you  in  a 
moment." 

Randolph  advanced  to  the  edge,  and  felt  in  turn. 
It  was  cold.  But  he  meant  to  manage  it  here,  just 
as  he  had  managed  with  the  sand-slopes. 

Two  heads  bobbed  on  the  water  where  but  one  had 
bobbed  before.  Ceremonially,  at  least,  the  rite  was 
complete. 

"It's  never  so  cold  the  second  time,"  declared  Cope 
encouragingly.  "One  dip  doesn't  make  a  swim,  any 
more  than  one  swallow " 

He  flashed  his  soles  in  the  sunlight  and  was  once 
again  immersed,  gulping,  in  a  maelstrom  of  his  own 
making. 

"Twice,  to  oblige  you,"  said  Randolph.  "But  no 
more.  I'll  leave  the  rest  to  the  sun  and  the  air." 

Cope,  out  again,  ran  up  and  down  the  sands  for  a 
hundred  feet  or  so.  "I  know  something  better  than 
this,"  he  declared  presently.  He  threw  himself  down 
and  rolled  himself  in  the  abundance  of  fine,  dry,  clean 
sand. 

"An  arenaceous  ulster — speaking  etymologically," 
he  said.  He  came  back  to  the  clump  of  basswoods 
near  which  Randolph  was  sitting  on  a  short  length  of 


86  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

drift  wood,  with  his  back  to  the  sun,  and  sat  down  be 
side  him. 

"You're  welcome  to  it,"  said  Randolph,  laughing; 
"but  how  are  you  going  to  get  it  off?  By  another 
dip?  Certainly  not  by  the  slow  process  of  time.  We 
have  some  moments  to  spare,  but  hardly  enough  for 
that.  Meanwhile  .  .  ." 

He  picked  up  a  handful  of  sand  and  applied  it  to  a 
bare  shoulder-blade  which  somehow  had  failed  to  get 
its  share  of  protection. 

"Thanks,"  said  Cope:  "the  right  thing  done  for 
Polynices.  Yes,  I  shall  take  one  final  dip  and  dry 
myself  on  my  handkerchief." 

"I  shall  dry  by  the  other  process,  and  so  shall  be 
able  to  spare  you  mine." 

"How  much  time  have  we  yet?" 

Randolph  reached  for  his  trousers,  as  they  hung 
on  a  lower  branch  of  one  of  the  basswoods.  "Oh,  a 
good  three-quarters  of  an  hour." 

"That's  time  enough,  and  to  spare.  I  wonder  whom 
we're  going  to  meet." 

"There's  a  'usual  crowd' :  the  three  young  ladies, 
commonly ;  one  or  two  young  men  who  understand  how 
to  tinker  the  oil-stove — which  usually  needs  it — and 
how  to  prime  the  pump.  They  once  asked  me  to  do 
these  things;  but  I've  discovered  that  younger  men 
enjoy  it  more  than  I  do,  so  I  let  them  do  it.  Besides 
these,  a  number  of  miscellaneous  people,  perhaps,  who 
come  out  by  trolley  or  in  their  own  cars." 

"The  young  ladies  always  come?"  asked  Cope, 
brushing  the  sand  from  his  chest. 


COPE  ON  THE  EDGE  OF  THINGS          87 

"Usually.  Together.  The  Graces.  Otherwise, 
what  becomes  of  the  Group?" 

"Well,  I  hope  there'll  be  enough  fellows  to  look 
after  the  stove  and  the  pump — and  them.  I'm  not 
much  good  at  that  last." 

"No?" 

"There's  a  knack  about  it — a  technique — that  I 
don't  seem  to  possess.  Nor  do  I  seem  greatly  prompted 
to  learn  it." 

"Of  course,  there  is  no  more  reason  for  assuming 
that  every  man  will  make  a  good  lover  than  that  every 
woman  will  make  a  good  mother  or  a  good  house 
keeper." 

"Or  that  every  adult  male  will  make  a  good  citizen, 
desiring  the  general  welfare  and  bestirring  himself 
to  contribute  his  own  share  to  it.  I  don't  feel  that 
I'm  an  especially  creditable  one." 

"So  it  runs.  We  ground  our  general  life  on  theo 
ries,  and  then  the  facts  come  up  and  slap  us  in  the 
face."  Randolph  rose  and  relieved  the  basswood  of 
the  first  garments.  "Are  you  about  ready  for  that 
final  dip?" 

Cope  made  his  last  plunge  and  returned  red  and 
shivering  to  use  the  two  handkerchiefs. 

"Well,  we  have  thirty  minutes,"  said  Randolph, 
as  they  resumed  their  march.  On  the  one  hand  the 
ragged  line  of  dunes  with  their  draping,  dense  or 
slight,  of  pines,  lindens  and  oaks ;  on  the  other  the 
unruffled  expanse  of  blue,  spreading  toward  a  horizon 
even  less  determinate  than  before. 

"No,  I'm  not  at  all  apt,"  said  Cope,  returning  to 


88  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

his  theme;  "not  even  for  self-defense.  I  suppose  I'm 
pretty  sure  to  get  caught  some  time  or  other." 

"Each  woman  according  to  her  powers  and  gifts. 
Varying  degrees  of  desire,  of  determination,  of  dex 
terity.  To  be  just,  I  might  add  a  fourth  d — devo 
tion." 

"You've  run  the  gauntlet,"  said  Cope.  "You  seem 
to  have  come  through  all  right." 

"Well,"  Randolph  returned  deprecatingly,  "I  can't 
really  claim  ever  to  have  enlisted  any  woman's  best 
endeavors." 

"I  hope  I  shall  have  the  same  good  luck.  Of  your 
four  d's,  it's  the  dexterity  that  gives  me  the  most 
dread." 

"Yes,  the  appeal  (not  always  honest)  to  chivalry, — 
though  devotion  is  sometimes  a  close  second.  You're 
manoeuvred  into  a  position  where  you're  made  to  think 
you  'must.'  I've  known  chaps  to  marry  on  that  basis. 

.  .  It's  weary  waiting  until  Madame  dies  and 
Madonna  steps  into  her  place." 

"Meanwhile,  safety  in  numbers." 

"Yes,  even  though  you're  in  the  very  midst  of  wish 
ing  or  of  wondering — or  of  a  careful  concern  to  cloak 
either." 

"Don't  dwell  on  it !  You  fill  me  with  apprehen 
sions." 

Randolph  put  up  his  arm  and  pointed.  A  roof 
through  a  notch  between  two  sandhills  beyond  a 
long  range  of  them,  was  seen,  set  high  and  half  hidden 
by  the  spreading  limbs  of  pines.  "There  it  is,"  he 
said. 


COPE  ON  THE  EDGE  OF  THINGS          89 

"So  close,  already?"     Such,  indeed,  it  appeared. 

"Not  so  close  as  it  seems.  We  may  just  as  well 
step  lively." 

Cope,  with  an  abundance  of  free  action,  was  tread 
ing  along  on  the  very  edge  of  things,  careless  of  the 
rough  shingle  and  indifferent  to  the  probability  of 
wet  feet,  and  swinging  his  hat  as  he  went.  In  some 
such  spirit,  perhaps,  advanced  young  Stoutheart  to 
the  ogre's  castle.  He  even  began  to  foot  it  a  little 
faster. 

"Well,  I  can  keep  up  with  you  yet,"  thought  Ran 
dolph.  Aloud,  he  said:  "You've  done  very  well  with 
your  hair.  Quite  an  inspiration  to  have  carried  a 
comb." 

Cope  grimaced. 

"I  trust  I'm  free  to  comb  myself  on  Sunday.  There 
are  plenty  of  others  to  do  it  for  me  through  the  week." 


CHAPTER  X 

COPE  AT  HIS  HOUSE  PARTY 

"You  LOOK  as  fit  as  two  fiddles,"  said  Medora  Phil 
lips,  at  the  top  of  her  sandhill. 

"We  are,"  declared  Randolph.  "Have  the  rest  of 
the  orchestra  arrived?" 

"Most  of  us  are  here,  and  the  rest  will  arrive  pres 
ently.  Listen.  I  think  I  hear  a  honk  somewhere  back 
in  the  woods." 

The  big  room  of  the  house,  made  by  knocking  two 
small  rooms  together,  seemed  fairly  full  already,  and 
other  guests  were  on  the  back  porch.  The  Graces 
were  there,  putting  the  finishing-touches  to  the  table ; 
— Helga  had  not  come,  after  all,  but  had  gone  in 
stead,  with  her  young  man,  to  spend  a  few  sunny  after 
noon  hours  among  the  films.  And  one  of  the  young 
business-men  present  at  Mrs.  Phillips'  dinner  was 
present  here;  he  seemed  to  know  how  to  handle  the 
oil-stove  and  the  pump  (with  the  cooperation  of  the 
chauffeur),  and  how  to  aid  the  three  handmaidens  in 
putting  on  the  knives,  forks,  plates  and  napkins  that 
Helga  had  decided  to  ignore.  The  people  in  the  dis 
tant  motor-car  became  less  distant ;  soon  they  stopped 
in  a  clearing  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and  before  long 
they  appeared  at  the  top  with  a  small  hamper  of  pro 
visions. 

90 


COPE  AT  HIS  HOUSE  PARTY      91 

"Oh,  why  didn't  you  ask  us  to  bring  something!" 
cried  Cope.  Randolph  shrugged  his  shoulders :  he  saw 
himself  lugging  a  basket  of  eatables  through  five  miles 
of  sand  and  thicket. 

4<You've  brought  yourself,"  declared  Mrs.  Phillips 
genially.  "That's  enough." 

There  was  room  for  the  whole  dozen  on  the  dining- 
porch.  The  favored  few  in  one  corner  of  it  could 
glimpse  the  blue  plane  of  the  lake,  or  at  least  catch 
the  horizon;  the  rest  could  look  over  the  treetops  to 
ward  the  changing  colors  of  the  wide  marshes  inland. 
And  when  the  feast  was  over,  the  chauffeur  took  his 
refreshment  off  to  one  side,  and  then  amiably  lent  a 
hand  with  the  dishes. 

"Let  me  help  wipe,"  cried  Cope  impulsively. 

"There  are  plenty  of  hands  to  help,"  returned  his 
hostess.  She  seemed  to  be  putting  him  on  a  higher 
plane  and  saving  him  for  better  things. 

One  of  the  better  things  was  a  stroll  over  her  tu 
multuous  domain:  the  five  miles  he  had  already  cov 
ered  were  not  enough. 

"I'll  stay  where  I  am,"  declared  Randolph,  who  had 
taken  this  regulation  jaunt  before.  He  followed  Cope 
to  the  hook  from  which  he  was  taking  down  his  hat. 
"Admire  everything,"  he  counselled  in  a  whisper. 

"Eh?" 

"Adjust  yourself  to  our  dominant  mood  without 
delay  or  reluctance.  Praise  promptly  and  fully  every 
thing  that  is  ours." 

The  party  consisted  of  four  or  five  of  the  younger 
people  and  two  or  three  of  the  older.  Most  of  them 


92  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

had  taken  the  walk  before;  Cope,  as  a  novice,  became 
the  especial  care  of  Mrs.  Phillips  herself.  The  way 
led  sandily  along  the  crest  of  a  wooded  amphitheatre, 
with  less  stress  on  the  prospect  waterward  than  might 
have  been  expected.  Cope  was  not  allowed,  indeed, 
to  overlook  the  vague  horizon  where,  through  the  pine 
groves,  the  blue  of  sky  and  of  sea  blended  into  one; 
but,  under  Medora  Phillips'  guidance,  his  eyes  were 
mostly  turned  inland. 

"People  think,"  she  said,  "that  'the  Dunes'  means 
nothing  beyond  a  regular  row  of  sandhills  following 
the  edge  of  the  water ;  yet  half  the  interest  and  three- 
quarters  of  the  variety  are  to  be  found  in  behind 
them.  See  my  wide  marsh,  off  to  the  southeast,  with 
those  islands  of  tamarack  here  and  there,  and  imag 
ine  how  beautiful  the  shadows  are  toward  sunset.  Look 
at  that  thick  wood  at  the  foot  of  the  slope:  do  you 
think  it  is  flat?  No,  it's  as  humpy  and  hilly  as  any 
thing  ever  traversed.  Only  this  spring  a  fascinating 
murderer  hid  there  for  weeks,  and  last  January  we 
could  hear  the  howls  of  timber-wolves  driven  down 
from  Michigan  by  the  cold.  And  see  those  tall  dead 
pines  rising  above  it  all.  I  call  them  the  Three 
Witches.  You'll  get  them  better  just  a  few  paces  to 
the  left.  This  way."  She  even  placed  her  hand  on 
his  elbow  to  make  sure  that  her  tragic  group  should 
appear  to  highest  advantage.  Yes,  he  was  an  ad 
mirable  young  man,  giving  admirable  attention; 
thrusting  out  his  hat  toward  prospects  of  exceptional 
account  and  casting  his  frank  blue  eyes  into  her  face 
between-times.  Charmingly  perfect  teeth  and  a  won- 


COPE  AT  HIS  HOUSE  PARTY      93 

derful  sweep  of  yellow  hair.  A  highly  civilized  faun 
for  her  highly  sylvan  setting.  Indifferent,  perhaps, 
to  her  precious  Trio ;  but  there  were  other  young  fel 
lows  to  look  after  them. 

Cope  praised  loudly  and  readily.  The  region  was 
unique  and  every  view  had  its  charm — every  view  save 
one.  Beyond  the  woods  and  the  hills  and  the  distant 
marshes  which  spread  behind  all  these,  there  rose  on 
the  bluish  horizon  a  sole  tall  chimney,  with  its  long 
black  streak  of  smoke.  Below  it  and  about  it  spread 
a  vast  rectangular  structure  with  watch-towers  at  its 
corners.  The  chimney  bespoke  light  and  heat  and 
power  furnished  in  quantities — power  for  many  shops, 
manned  by  compulsory  workers :  a  prison,  in  short. 

"Why,  what's  that?"  asked  Cope  tactlessly. 

Medora  Phillips  withheld  her  eyes  and  sent  out  a 
guiding  finger  in  the  opposite  direction.  "Only  see 
the  red  of  those  maples!"  she  said;  "and  that  other 
red  just  to  the  left — the  tree  with  the  small,  fine  leaves 
all  aflame.  Do  you  know  what  it  is?" 

"I'm  afraid  not." 

"It's  a  tupelo.  And  this  shrub,  right  here?"  She 
took  between  her  fingers  one  large,  bland  indented  leaf 
on  a  small  tree  close  to  the  path. 

Cope  shook  his  head. 

"Why,  it's  a  sassafras.  And  this?" — she  thrust 
her  toe  into  a  thick,  lustrous  bed  of  tiny  leaves  that 
hugged  the  ground.  "No,  again?  That's  kinnikin- 
nick.  Oh,  my  poor  boy,  you  have  everything  to  learn. 
Brought  up  in  the  country,  too!" 

"But,  really,"  said  Cope  in  defense,  "Freeford  isn't 


94  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

so  small  as  that.  And  even  in  the  country  one  may 
turn  by  preference  to  books.  Try  me  on  primroses 
and  date-palms  and  pomegranates !" 

Medora  broke  off  a  branch  of  sassafras  and  swished 
it  to  and  fro  as  she  walked.  "See,"  she  said;  "three 
kinds  of  leaves  on  the  same  tree:  one  without  lobes, 
one  with  a  single  lobe,  and  one  with  two." 

"Isn't  Nature  wonderful,"  replied  Cope  easily. 

Meanwhile  the  young  ladies  sauntered  along — be 
fore  or  behind,  as  the  case  might  be — in  the  company 
of  the  young  business-man  and  that  of  another  youth 
who  had  come  out  independently  on  the  trolley.  They 
appeared  to  be  suitably  accompanied  and  entertained. 
But  shif tings  and  readjustments  ensued,  as  they  are 
sure  to  do  with  a  walking-party.  Cope  presently 
found  himself  scuffling  through  the  thin  grass  and  the 
briery  thickets  alongside  the  young  business-man.  He 
was  a  clever,  companionable  chap,  but  he  declared 
himself  all  too  soon,  even  in  this  remote  Arcadia,  as 
utterly  true  to  type.  Cope  was  not  long  in  feeling 
him  as  operating  on  the  unconscious  assumption — un 
conscious,  and  therefore  all  the  more  damnable — that 
the  young  man  in  business  constituted,  ipso  facto,  a 
kind  of  norm  by  which  other  young  men  in  other  fields 
of  endeavor  were  to  be  gauged :  the  farther  they  devi 
ated  from  the  standard  he  automatically  set  up,  the 
more  lamentable  their  deficiencies.  A  few  condescend 
ing  inquiries  as  to  the  academic  life,  that  strange 
aberration  from  the  normality  of  the  practical  and 
profitable  course  which  made  the  ordinary  life  of  the 
day,  and  the  separation  came.  "Enough  of  him!" 


COPE  AT  HIS  HOUSE  PARTY      95 

muttered  Cope  to  himself  presently,  and  began  to  cast 
about  for  other  company.  Amy  Leffingwell  was  stroll 
ing  along  alone:  he  caught  a  branch  of  haw  from  be 
fore  her  meditative  face  and  proffered  a  general  re 
mark  about  the  beauty  of  the  day  and  the  interest 
in  the  changing  prospect. 

Amy's  pretty  pink  face  brightened.  '"It  is  a  lovely 
day,"  she  said.  "And  the  more  of  this  lovely  weather 
we  have  in  October — and  especially  in  November — the 
more  trouble  it  makes." 

"Surely  you  don't  want  rain  or  frost?" 

"No ;  but  it  becomes  harder  to  shut  the  house  up 
for  good  and  all.  Last  fall  we  opened  and  closed  two 
or  three  times.  We  even  tried  coming  out  in  De 
cember." 

"In  mackintoshes  and  rubber  boots?" 

"Almost.  But  the  boots  are  better  for  February. 
At  least,  they  would  have  been  last  February." 

"It  seems  hard  to  imagine  such  a  future  for  a  place 
like  this, — or  such  a  past." 

"Things  can  be  pretty  rough,  I  assure  you.  And 
the  roads  are  not  always  as  good  as  they  are  to-day." 
And  when  the  pump  froze,  she  went  on,  they  had  to 
depend  upon  the  lake;  and  when  the  lake  froze  they 
had  to  fall  back  on  melted  snow  and  ice.  And  even 
when  the  lake  didn't  freeze,  the  blowing  waters  and 
the  flying  sands  often  heaped  up  big  ridges  that  quite 
cut  them  off  from  the  open  sea.  Then  they  had  to 
prospect  along  those  tawny  hummocks  for  some  small 
inlet  that  would  yield  a  few  buckets  of  frozen  spray, 
— keeping  on  the  right  side  of  the  deep  fissures  that 


96  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

held  the  threat  of  icebergs  to  be  cast  loose  at  any 
moment;  "and  sometimes,"  she  added,  in  search  of  a 
little  thrill,  "we  would  get  back  toward  shore  to  find 
deep  openings  with  clear  water  dashing  beneath — 
we  had  been  walking  on  a  mere  snow-crust  half  the 
time." 

"Most  interesting,"  said  Cope  accommodatingly. 
He  saw  no  winter  shore. 

"Yes,  February  was  bad,  but  Mrs.  Phillips  wanted 
to  make  sure,  toward  the  end  of  the  winter,  that  the 
house  hadn't  blown  away, — nor  the  contents;  for  we 
have  housebreakers  every  so  often.  And  Hortense 
wanted  to  make  some  'color-notes.'  I  believe  she's 
going  to  try  for  some  more  to-day." 

"To-day  is  a  good  day — unless  the  October  tints 
are  too  obvious." 

"She  says  they  are  not  subtle,  but  that  she  can  use 
them." 

Well,  here  he  was,  talking  along  handily  enough. 
But  he  had  no  notion  of  talking  for  long  about  Hor 
tense.  He  preferred  returning  to  the  weather. 

"And  what  does  such  a  day  do  for  you?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  I  suppose  it  helps  me  in  a  general  way.  But 
my  notes,  of  course,  are  on  paper  already." 

Yes,  he  was  walking  alongside  her  and  holding  his 
own — thus  far.  She  seemed  a  pretty  enough,  grace 
ful  enough  little  thing;  not  so  tall  by  an  inch  or  so 
as  she  appeared  when  seated  behind  that  samovar. 
On  that  day  she  had  been  reasonably  sprightly — to 
ward  others,  even  if  not  toward  him.  To-day  she 
seemed  meditative,  rather;  even  elegiac — unless  there 


COPE  AT  HIS  HOUSE  PARTY      97 

was  a  possible  sub-acid  tang  in  her  reference  to  Hor- 
tense's  color-notes.  Aside  from  that  possibility,  there 
was  little  indication  of  the  "dexterity"  which  Ran 
dolph  had  asked  him  to  beware. 

"On  paper  already?"  he  repeated.  "But  not  all 
of  them?  I  know  you  compose.  You  are  not  saying 
that  you  are  about  to  give  composition  up?"  A 
forced  and  awkward  "slur,"  perhaps ;  but  it  served. 

She  gave  a  little  sigh.  "Pupils  don't  want  my 
pieces,"  she  said.  "Scales ;  exercises  .  .  ." 

"I  know,"  he  returned.  "Themes, — clearness,  mass, 
unity  .  .  .  It's  the  same." 

They  looked  at  each  other  and  smiled.  "We  ought 
not  to  think  of  such  things  to-day,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Phillips  came  along,  shepherding  her  little 
flock  for  the  return.  "But  before  we  do  turn  back," 
she  adjured  them,  "just  look  at  those  two  lovely 
spreading  pines  standing  together  alone  on  that  far 
hill."  The  small  group  gazed  obediently — though  to 
many  of  them  the  prospect  was  a  familiar  one.  Yes, 
there  stood  two  pines,  one  just  a  little  taller  than  the 
other,  and  just  a  little  inclined  across  the  other's  top. 
"A  girl  out  here  in  August  called  them  Paolo  and 
Francesca.  Do  you  think,"  she  asked  Cope,  "that 
those  names  are  suitable?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  replied,  looking  at  the  trees 
thoughtfully.  "They  seem  rather — static ;  and  Dante's 
lovers,  if  I  recollect,  had  considerable  drive.  They 
were  *al  vento9 — on  the  wind — weren't  they?  It  might 
be  less  violent  and  more  modern  to  call  your  trees 
Pelleas  and  Melisande,  or " 


98  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

"That's  it.  That's  the  very  thing!"  said  Medora 
Phillips  heartily.  "Pelleas  and  Melisande,  of  course. 
That  girl  had  a  very  ordinary  mind." 

"I've  felt  plenty  of  wind  on  the  dunes,  more  than 
once,"  interjected  Hortense. 

"Or  Darby  and  Joan,"  Cope  continued.  "Not  that 
I'm  defending  that  poor  creature,  whoever  she  was. 
They  seem  to  be  a  pretty  staid,  steady-going  couple." 

"Don't,"  said  Medora.  "Too  many  ideas  are  worse 
than  too  few.  They  confuse  one." 

And  Amy  Leffingwell,  who  had  seemed  willing  to 
admire  him,  now  looked  at  him  with  an  air  of  plaintive 
protest. 

"  'Darby  and  Joan' !"  muttered  Hortense  into  a 
sumach  bush.  "You  might  as  well  call  them  Jack  and 
Jill!" 

"They're  Pelleas  and  Melisande,"  declared  Mrs. 
Phillips,  in  a  tone  of  finality.  "Thank  you  so  much," 
she  said,  with  a  smile  that  reinstated  Cope  after  a 
threatened  lapse  from  favor. 


CHAPTER  XI 

COPE  ENLIVENS  THE  COUNTRY 

As  THEY  DREW  near  the  house  they  heard  the  tones 
of  a  gramophone.  This  instrument  rested  flatly  on 
a  small  table  and  took  the  place  of  a  piano,  which 
would  have  been  a  fearful  thing  to  transport  from 
town  and  back.  It  was  jigging  away  merrily  enough, 
with  a  quick,  regular  rhythm  which  suggested  a  dance- 
tune;  and  when  the  party  re-entered  the  big  room  it 
was  seen  that  a  large  corner  of  the  center  rug  was 
still  turned  back.  Impossible  that  anybody  could  have 
been  dancing  on  the  Sabbath;  surely  everybody  un 
derstood  that  the  evangelical  principles  of  Churchton 
were  projected  on  these  occasions  to  the  dunes.  Be 
sides,  the  only  women  left  behind  had  been  two  in 
their  forties;  the  men  in  their  company  were  even 
older.  Medora  Phillips  looked  at  Randolph,  but  he 
was  staring  inexpressively  at  the  opposite  wall.  She 
found  herself  wondering  if  there  were  times  when  the 
mere  absence  of  the  young  served  automatically  to 
make  the  middle-aged  more  youthful. 

"Well,  we've  had  a  most  lovely  walk,"  she  declared. 
She  crossed  to  the  far  corner  of  the  room,  contriving 
to  turn  down  the  rug  as  she  went,  and  opened  up  a 
new  reservoir  of  records.  She  laid  them  on  the  table 

99 


100  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

rather  emphatically,  as  if  to  say,  "These  are  suited 
to  the  day." 

"I  hope  you're  all  rested  up,"  she  continued,  and  put 
one  of  the  new  records  on  the  machine.  The  air  was 
from  a  modern  opera,  true ;  but  it  was  slow-going  and 
had  even  been  fitted  out  with  "sacred"  words.  Every 
body  knew  it,  and  presently  everybody  was  hum 
ming  it. 

"It  ought  not  to  be  hummed,"  she  declared;  "it 
ought  to  be  sung.  You  can  sing  it,  Mr.  Cope?" 

"Oh  yes,  indeed,"  replied  Cope,  readily  enough.  "I 
have  the  breath  left,  I  think, — or  I  can  very  soon 
find  it." 

"Take  a  few  minutes.  I'll  fill  in  with  something 
else." 

They  listened  to  an  inconclusive  thing  by  a  wob 
bling  soprano,  and  then  Mrs.  Phillips  put  the  other 
record  back. 

The  accompaniment  to  the  air  was  rather  rich  and 
dense,  and  the  general  tone-quality  was  somewhat 
blatant.  But  Cope  stood  up  to  it  all,  and  had  the 
inspiration  to  treat  the  new  combination  as  a  sort  of 
half-joke.  But  he  was  relieved  from  the  bother  of 
accompanying  himself;  his  resonance  overlaid  in  some 
measure  the  cheap  quality  of  the  record's  tone;  he 
contrived  to  master  a  degree  of  momentum — to  let 
himself  go;  and  the  general  result  was  good, — much 
better  than  his  attempt  at  that  tea.  Hortense  and 
Carolyn  looked  at  him  with  a  new  respect;  and  Amy, 
who  had  been  willing  to  admire,  now  admired  openly. 
Cope  ended,  gave  a  slight  grimace,  and  sauntered 


COPE  ENLIVENS  THE  COUNT.RY    10! 

away  from  the  table  and  the  instrument.     He  knew 
that  he  had  done  rather  well. 

"Bravo !"  loudly  cried  one  of  the  ladies,  who  felt 
that  she  was  under  suspicion  of  having  taken  a  step 
or  two  in  the  dance.  And,  "Oh,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Phillips  to  her,  sotto  voce,  "isn't  he  utterly  charm- 

ing!" 

Cope  wiped  his  brow.  The  walk  had  made  him 
warm,  and  the  singing  had  made  him  warmer.  One 
or  two  of  the  women  were  using  chance  pamphlets  as 
fans  (despite  Mrs.  Phillips'  ill-concealed  doubts),  and 
everybody  showed  a  willingness  to  keep  in  the  draught 
from  the  open  windows. 

"Is  it  close  here?"  asked  the  hostess  anxiously. 
"The  day  is  almost  like  summer.  If  the  water  is  any 
where  nearly  as  warm  as  the  air  is  ...  Let  me 
see ;  it's  a  quarter  to  four.  I  have  a  closetful  of  bath 
ing  suits,  all  sizes  and  shapes  and  several  colors,  if 
anybody  cares  to  go  in." 

"Don't!"  cried  Cope  explosively. 

She  looked  at  him  with  interest.  "Have  you  been 
trying  it?" 

"I  have.  On  the  way  along  the  shore.  I  assure 
you,  however  warm  the  air  may  be,  the  bathing  sea 
son  is  over." 

"Well,  I  rather  thought  something  had  been  hap 
pening  to  you.  Mr.  Randolph,  is  it  as  bad  as  he 
says?" 

"I'll  take  his  word,"  replied  Randolph.  "And  I 
think  all  of  us  had  better  do  the  same." 

"We  might  go  down   to  the  beach,  anyway,"   she 


1C2  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

said.  "Hortense  wants  to  make  her  color-notes,  and 
the  color  will  be  good  from  now  on." 

Several  of  the  party  threaded  their  way  down  over 
the  sliding  sandy  path  which  led  through  the  pines 
and  junipers.  Cope  was  willing  to  go  with  the  others 
— on  the  present  understanding.  He  objected  to  pro 
miscuous  bathing  even  more  strongly  than  he  objected 
to  promiscuous  dancing. 

There  were  some  new  cumuli  in  the  east,  out  above 
the  water,  and  they  began  to  take  the  late  afternoon 
sun.  Hortense  cast  about  for  just  the  right  point  of 
view,  with  Carolyn  to  help  on  "atmosphere"  and  two 
young  men  to  be  superserviceable  over  campstool, 
sketch-block  and  box  of  colors.  She  brought  back 
a  few  dabs  which  may  have  served  some  future  use ; — 
at  all  events  they  served  as  items  in  a  social  record. 

Cope  and  Amy,  with  some  of  the  others,  strolled 
off  in  the  opposite  direction.  The  water  remained 
smooth,  and  some  of  the  men  idly  skipped  stones. 
One  of  them  dipped  in  his  hand.  "Cold?"  he  ex 
claimed;  "I  should  say!" 

Amy  looked  admiringly  at  Cope,  as  one  who  had 
braved,  beyond  season,  the  chill  of  the  great  deep,  and 
he  tried  to  reward  her  with  a  "thought"  or  two.  He 
had  skipped  stones  himself  between  dips,  and  Ran 
dolph  had  made  a  reflection  which  he  could  now  revise 
and  employ. 

"See!"  he  said,  as  a  flat,  waveworn  piece  of  slate 
left  the  hand  of  the  young  business-man  and  careered 
over  the  water;  "one,  two,  three — -six,  eight — ten, 
thirteen ;  and  then  down,  down,  after  all, — down  to 


COPE  ENLIVENS  THE  COUNTRY         103 

the  bottom.  And  so  we  end — every  one  of  us.  The 
great  thing  is  to  crowd  in  all  the  action  we  can  be 
fore  the  final  plunge  comes — to  go  skipping  and 
splashing  as  hard  and  long  and  fast  and  far  as  we 
may !" 

A  valuable  thought,  possibly,  and  elaborated  be 
yond  Randolph's  sketchy  and  casual  utterance;  but 
Amy  looked  uncomfortable  and  chilled  and  glanced 
with  little  favor  at  a  few  other  flat  stones  lying  at 
her  feet.  "Please  don't.  Please  change  the  subject," 
she  seemed  to  ask. 

She  changed  it  herself.  "You  sang  beautifully," 
she  said,  with  some  return  of  warmth — even  with  some 
approach  to  fervor. 

"Oh,  I  can  sing,"  he  returned  nonchalantly,  "if  I 
can  only  have  my  hands  in  my  pockets,  or  waving  in 
the  air,  or  anywhere  but  on  a  keyboard." 

"I  wish  you  had  let  them  persuade  you  to  sing  an 
other."  She  was  not  only  willing  to  admire,  but  de 
sirous:  conscientious  amends,  perhaps,  for  an  earlier 
verdict.  "One  or  two  more  skips,  you  know,  after 
getting  started." 

"Oh,  once  was  enough.  A  happy  coincidence.  The 
next  might  have  been  an  unhappy  one." 

"You  have  never  learned  to  accompany  yourself?" 

"As  you've  seen,  I'm  a  rather  poor  hand  at  it ;  I've 
depended  a  good  deal  on  others.  Or,  better,  on  an 
other." 

She  looked  at  him  earnestly.  "Have  you  ever  sung 
to  an  obbligato?" 

"None  of  my  songs,  thus  far,  has  called  for  one. 


104.  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

An  obbligato?  Never  so  much  honored.  No,  indeed. 
Why,  to  me  it  would  seem  almost  like  singing  with  an 
orchestra.  Imagine  a  'cello.  Imagine  a  flute — still 
I'm  not  a  soprano  going  mad.  Or  imagine  a  saxo 
phone  ;  that  might  be  droll." 

He  gave  out  a  sort  of  dragging  bleat.  She  did  not 
smile;  perhaps  she  felt  such  an  approach  to  wag 
gery  unworthy  of  him.  Perhaps  she  was  holding  him 
up  to  the  dignity  of  the  natural  scene,  and  to  the  im 
portance  of  the  occasion  as  she  conceived  it. 

Cope  had  no  desire  to  figure  as  a  comique,  and  at 
once  regained  sobriety.  "Of  course,"  he  admitted, 
"we  are  not  at  a  the  dcmsant  or  a  cabaret.  Such 
things  ought  not  to  be  thought  of — here." 

She  turned  her  eyes  on  him  again,  with  a  new  look 
of  sympathy  and  understanding.  Perhaps  under 
standing  between  them  had  failed  or  lapsed  but  a  mo 
ment  before. 

"How  all  this  shames  the  town!"  she  said. 

"And  us — if  we  misbehave,"  he  added. 

Mrs.  Phillips  came  scurrying  along,  collecting  her 
scattered  guests,  as  before.  "Tea!"  she  said.  "Tea 
for  one  or  two  who  must  make  an  early  start  back  to 
town.  Also  a  sip  and  a  bite  for  those  who  stay." 

She  moved  along  toward  Hortense  and  her  little 
group.  Hortense's  "color-notes"  did  not  appear  to 
amount  to  much.  Hortense  seemed  to  have  been 
"fussed" — either  by  an  excess  of  company  and  of 
help,  or  by  some  private  source  of  discontent  and  dis 
equilibrium. 

"Come,"  Mrs.  Phillips  cried  to  her,  "I  need  every 


COPE  ENLIVENS  THE  COUNTRY         105 

Martha  to  lend  a  hand."  Hortense  rose,  and  one  of 
her  young  men  picked  up  her  campstool. 

"So  glad  you  haven't  got  to  go  early,"  said  Mrs. 
Phillips  to  Randolph  and  Cope.  "In  fact,  you  might 
stay  all  night.  It  will  be  warm,  and  there  are  cots 
and  blankets  for  the  porch." 

"Thanks,  indeed,"  said  Cope.  "But  I  have  a  class 
at  eight-fifteen  to-morrow  morning,  and  they'll  be 
waiting  to  hear  about  the  English  Novel  in  the  Eight 
eenth  Century,  worse  luck!  Fielding  and  Richardson 
and " 

"Are  you  going  to  explain  Pamela  and  Clarissa  to 
them?"  asked  Hortense.  She  was  abrupt  and  possibly 
a  bit  scornful. 

Cope  seemed  to  scent  a  challenge  and  accepted  it. 
"I  am.  The  women  may  figure  on  the  covers,  but 
the  men  play  their  own  strong  part  through  the 
pages." 

"I  seem  to  recall,"  contributed  Mrs.  Phillips,  "that 
Sir  Charles  Grandison  figured  both  ways." 

"That  prig!"  said  Hortense. 

"Well,  if  you  can't  stay  overnight,"  Mrs.  Phillips 
proceeded,  "at  least  stay  a  few  hours  for  the  moon 
light.  The  moon  will  be  almost  full  to-night,  and  the 
walk  across  the  marshes  to  the  trolley-line  ought  to 
be  beautiful.  Or  Peter  could  run  you  across  in  eight 
or  ten  minutes." 

She  did  not  urge  Randolph  to  remain  in  the  ab 
sence  of  Cope,  though  Randolph's  appearance  at  his 
office  at  ten  in  the  morning  would  have  surprised  no 
one,  and  have  embarrassed  no  one. 


106  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

Tea  was  served  before  the  big  fireplace  in  which  a 
small  flame  to  heat  the  kettle  was  rising.  Randolph 
set  his  empty  cup  on  the  shelf  above. 

"Notice,"  said  Mrs.  Phillips  to  him,  "that  poem  of 
Carolyn's  just  behind  your  cup:  'Summer  Day  in 
Duneland'."  It  was  a  bit  of  verse  in  a  narrow  black 
frame,  and  the  mat  was  embellished  with  pen-and-ink 
drawings  of  the  dunes,  to  the  effect  of  an  etching. 
An  etcher,  in  fact,  a  man  famous  in  his  field,  had  made 
them,  Mrs.  Phillips  explained. 

"And  at  the  other  end  of  the  shelf,"  she  advised  him, 
"is  a  poem  in  free  verse,  done  by  a  real  journalist 
who  was  here  in  June.  See:  'Homage  to  Dunecrest' 
— written  with  a  blue  pencil  on  a  bit  of  driftwood." 

"Sorry  we  can't  leave  any  souvenir  behind,"  said 
Cope,  who  had  stolen  up  and  was  looking  at  the 
"poem"  over  Randolph's  shoulder.  "But  one  must 
(first)  be  clever;  and  one  must  (second)  know  how 
to  put  his  cleverness  on  record." 

"I  shall  remember  your  record,"  she  returned  with 
emphasis.  Cope  smiled  deprecatingly ;  but  he  felt 
sure  that  he  had  sung  well. 

The  moonlight,  when  it  came,  was  all  that  Medora 
Phillips  had  promised.  There  was  another  stroll  on 
the  beach,  with  Cope  between  Medora  and  Carolyn. 
Then  he  and  Randolph  took  the  causeway  across  the 
marsh,  stopped  the  trolley  by  burning  a  newspaper 
on  the  track,  and  started  on  the  long  trip  home. 

As  the  car  ran  along  jerkily  from  station  to  sta 
tion,  the  earlier  void  of  Duneland  became  peopled  in 
deed.  The  extraordinarily  mild  day  had  drawn  out 


COPE  ENLIVENS  THE  COUNTRY         107 

hundreds — had  given  the  moribund  summer-excursion 
season  a  new  lease  of  life.  Every  stoppage  brought 
so  many  more  young  men  in  soiled  khaki,  with  shape 
less  packs  on  their  backs,  and  so  many  more  wan 
maidens,  no  longer  young,  who  were  trying,  in  little 
bands,  to  capture  from  Nature  the  joys  thus  far 
denied  by  domestic  life ;  and  at  one  station  a  belated 
squad  of  the  "Lovers  of  Landscape" — some  forty  or 
fifty  in  all — came  flooding  in  with  the  day's  spoils: 
masses  of  asters  and  goldenrod,  with  the  roots  as 
often  as  not;  festoons  of  bittersweet,  and  sheaves  of 
sumach  and  golden  glow;  and  one  ardent  spirit  stag 
gered  in  under  the  weight  of  an  immense  brown  paper 
bag  stuffed  with  prickly  pear.  As  the  tight-packed 
company  slid  along,  children  drowsed  or  whimpered, 
short-tempered  young  men  quarreled  with  the  con 
ductor,  elderly  folk  sat  in  squeezed,  plaintive  resigna 
tion.  .  .  .  Soon  the  lights  of  foundry  fires  began 
to  show  on  the  sky;  then  people  started  dropping  off 
in  the  streets  of  towns  enlivened  by  the  glitter  of 
many  saloons  and  .an  occasional  loud  glare  from  the 
front  of  a  moving-picture  theater.  .  .  . 

Through  these  many  miles  Randolph  and  Cope  sat 
silent:  there  seemed  to  be  a  tacit  agreement  that  they 
need  no  longer  exert  themselves  to  entertain  each 
other.  Cope  reached  home  shortly  before  midnight. 
By  next  morning  many  of  the  doings  of  the  previous 
day  had  quite  passed  from  his  mind.  Yet  a  few  firm 
impressions  remained.  He  had  had  a  good  swim,  if 
but  a  brief  one,  with  a  companion  who  had  been  will 
ing,  even  if  not  bold ;  he  had  imposed  an  acceptable 


108  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

nomenclature  upon  a  somewhat  anonymous  landscape ; 
and,  in  circumstances  slightly  absurd,  or  at  least  un 
favorable,  he  had  done  his  voice  and  his  method  high 
credit  in  song.  All  else  went  for  next  to  nothing. 


CHAPTER  XII 

COPE  AMIDST  CROSS-PURPOSES 

NEXT  morning's  mail  brought  Cope  a  letter  from 
Arthur  Lemoyne.  The  letter  was  short — at  least  when 
compared  with  Cope's  own  plentiful  pennings ;  but  it 
gave  our  young  instructor  a  few  points  to  think  about 
while  he  was  illuminating  Clarissa  Harlowe  and  mak 
ing  some  careful  comments  on  Joseph  Andrews.  Re 
leased  toward  noon,  he  read  the  letter  over  again ;  and 
he  ran  over  it  again  during  lunch.  Lemoyne  possessed 
a  variety  of  gifts,  but  the  gift  of  letter-writing,  in 
an  extended  form,  was  not  among  them.  He  said  all 
he  had  to  say  in  four  moderate  pages. 

"Yours  received,"  he  wrote.  "Am  glad  the  year 
has  opened  up  so  interestingly  for  you.  Of  course 
I  want  to  come  down  as  soon  as  I  can,  if  I  can,  and  be 
with  you." 

Well,  the  "if,"  as  the  latter  part  of  the  letter  indi 
cated,  was  not  likely  to  prove  insurmountable.  The 
assurance  that  he  wanted  to  come  was  grateful,  though 
superfluous :  who  had  supposed  for  a  moment  that  he 
didn't?  Still,  the  thing,  put  down  in  plain  black  and 
white,  had  its  look  of  comfort. 

"Of  course  the  business  is  not  gaining  much  through 
my  connection  with  it.  I  expect  father  begins  to  see 
that,  pretty  plainly.  As  for  the  cathedral  choir  and 

109 


110  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

the  dramatic  club  and  all  the  rest,  I  am  willing  to 
throw  them  over — expecting  that  larger  interests  can 
be  opened  to  me  by  you." 

Cope  paused  on  these  points.  He  had  suggested 
that  Lemoyne  enroll  as  a  student  in  some  slight  course 
or  other,  with  the  hope  that  his  voice  might  lead  to 
his  wearing  cap  and  gown  at  chapel  services  and  that 
his  dramatic  experience  might  give  him  some  role  in 
the  annual  operetta.  In  either  of  these  quarters  a 
good  tenor  voice  was  usually  to  seek.  And  as  for  the 
business  .  .  .  Well,  he  had  once  overheard  the 
elder  Lemoyne's  partner  audibly  wonder  whether 
Arthur  would  ever  learn  how  to  ship  a  keg  of  nails 
out  of  their  back  door,  even. 

Cope  pushed  away  his  coffee-cup  and  asked  the 
young  Greek  for  a  cut  of  pie. 

"I  sort  of  sounded  father  the  other  day,  but  he  was 
pretty  huffy.  I'll  try  again,  soon;  but  I  doubt  if  I 
can  manage  to  come  down  until  after  the  holidays. 
You  begin  a  new  term,  then,  I  suppose.  The  fact  is, 
I  took  a  week  off  in  the  middle  of  September,  and 
father  hasn't  forgiven  it.  One  of  our  fellows  in  the 
choir  had  just  bought  a  little  roadster,  and  he  in 
cited  me  for  a  trip  to  Green  Bay  and  beyond.  We 
dipped  along  through  Fish  Creek,  Ephraim,  and  so 
on.  Good  weather,  good  roads,  good  scenery,  good 
hotels ;  and  a  pleasant  time  was  had  by  all — or,  rather, 
by  both."  .  .  . 

Cope  dwelt  darkly  on  this  passage.  Arthur  was 
flighty;  Arthur  was  volatile;  Arthur  was  even  fickle, 
when  the  mood  took  him.  Some  arrangement  that  par- 


COPE  AMIDST  CROSS-PURPOSES          111 

took  more  of  the  hard-and-fast  was  needed.  But  there 
was  comfort — of  a  kind — in  the  next  passage. 

"Though  father,  at  best,  will  do  very  little,  and 
though  I  have  just  now  little  enough  of  my  own,  there 
may  be  somebody  or  other  among  your  faculty  or 
trustees  who  could  find  me  a  niche  in  the  college  li 
brary  or  in  the  registrar's  office.  Or  have  all  such 
posts  been  snapped  up  by  Johnnys-on-the-spot?  A 
small  weekly  stipend  would  rather  help  our  menage, — 
hein?" 

This  definite  inquiry  (which  carried  its  own  an 
swer)  seemed  to  drive  one  or  two  brass  tacks  with 
some  definiteness.  Cope  himself  was  eking  out  his 
small  salary  with  a  small  allowance  from  home;  next 
year,  with  the  thesis  accomplished,  better  pay  in  some 
better  place.  A  present  partner  and  pal  ought  to  be 
a  prop  rather  than  a  drag:  however  welcome  his  com 
pany,  he  must  bear  his  share. 

"Look  about  a  bit  for  quarters,"  Lemoyne  went 
on,  drawing  toward  his  conclusion.  "I  presume  room- 
rent  is  little  more  for  two  than  for  one.  Possibly," 
he  put  down  in  an  afterthought,  "I  might  get  a  job 
in  the  city ;"  and  then,  "with  warm  regards,"  he  came 
to  a  close  as  "Art." 

Cope  finished  his  lunch  and  walked  out.  If  Arthur 
could  do  one  thing  better  than  another,  it  was  to  make 
coffee;  his  product  was  assuredly  better  than  the 
Greek's.  The  two  had  camped  out  more  than  once 
on  the  shores  of  Lake  Winnebago,  and  Arthur  had 
deftly  managed  the  commissariat.  They  had  had  good 
times  together  and  had  needed  no  other  company. 


112  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

How  had  it  been  on  Green  Bay — at  Eagle  Cliff  and 
Apron  Bluff  and  all  the  other  places  lately  celebrated 
in  lithographed  "folders"  and  lately  popularized  by 
motorists?  And  who  was  the  particular  "fellow"  who 
ran  the  roadster? 

Late  that  afternoon  Cope  chanced  upon  Randolph 
among  the  fantastic  basins  and  floral  parterres  of  the 
court  in  front  of  the  Botany  building:  Randolph  had 
had  a  small  matter  for  one  of  the  deans.  Together 
they  sauntered  over  to  the  lake.  From  the  edge  of 
the  bluff  they  walked  out  upon  the  concrete  terrace 
above  the  general  boiler-room  and  its  dynamos. 
Alongside  this,  the  vast  tonnage  of  coal  required  for 
the  coming  winter  was  beginning  to  pile  up.  The 
weather  was  still  mild  and  sunny  and  the  lake  was  as 
valiantly  blue  as  ever. 

"It  doesn't  look  like  the  same  body  of  water,  does 
it?"  said  Cope. 

"It  might  be  just  as  beautiful  in  its  own  way,  here, 
as  we  found  it  yesterday,  out  there,"  returned  Ran 
dolph.  "I've  asked  my  brother-in-law,  I  don't  know 
how  many  times,  why  they  can't  do  better  by  this 
unfortunate  campus  and  bring  it  all  up  to  a  reasonable 
level  of  seemliness.  But " 

"You  have  a  relative  among  the ?" 

"Yes,  my  sister's  husband  is  one  of  the  University 
trustees.  But  he  lives  miles  from  this  spot  and  hardly 
ever  sees  it.  Besides,  his  aesthetic  endowments  arc 
not  beyond  those  of  the  average  university  trustee. 
Sometimes  they're  as  hard  on  Beauty  as  they  are  on 
Free  Speech." 


COPE  AMIDST  CROSS-PURPOSES          113 

"I  see  they're  hard  on  beauty;  and  I  may  live  to 
find  free  speech  mauled,  too." 

"Well,  you're  not  in  Sociology  or  Economics.  Still, 
don't  trifle  with  a  long-established  sesthetic  idol  either. 
Trustees — and  department  heads — are  conservative." 

"Oh,  you  mean  about ?" 

"About  your  immortal  William.  He  wrote  them. 
Don't  try  to  rob  him.  Don't  try  to  knock  him  off 
his  pedestal." 

"Oh,  you're  thinking  about  my  thesis.  What  I 
said  about  Warwickshire  was  just  a  little  flight  of 
fancy,  I  guess, — a  bit  of  doorstep  travel.  I'm  likely 
enough  to  stay  where  I  am." 

"Well,  how  about  the  thesis,  really?" 

"I  think  I  shall  end  by  digging  something  out  of 
Here  and  Now.  'Our  Middle-West  School  of  Fiction,' 
— what  would  you  think  of  that?" 

"H'm !   If  you  can  make  it  seem  worth  while   .    .    ." 

"Well,  can't  I?" 

"Your  work,  from  the  very  nature  of  it,  must  be 
critical.  Now  the  critic,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  takes 
down  a  volume  from  its  established  shelf,  dusts  it  off, 
ruffles  the  leaves  a  bit,  and  then  puts  it  back  where 
it  was.  The  ruffling  is  sometimes  very  nice  and  inter 
esting  and  often  gives  the  ruffler  a  good  position  in 
the  glorious  company  of  earlier  rufflers " 

"I  shouldn't  be  satisfied  with  anything  like  that. 
Things  have  got  to  move.  I  want  to  take  some  re 
cent,  less-known  men  and  put  them  on  the  shelves." 

"Yet  you  don't  want  to  waste  work  on  material 
which  time  may  show  as  of  transient  value,  or  of  none." 


114  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

"A  fellow  must  chance  it.  Who  gives  quickly  gives 
twice; — I  suppose  that  applies  to  praise  as  well  as 
to  money.  It  irks  me  to  find  more  praise  bestowed 
on  the  praised-enough, — even  on  groups  of  secondary 
importance,  sometimes  just  because  they  are  remote 
(in  England,  perhaps),  and  so  can  be  treated  with 
an  easy  objectivity.  To  dig  in  your  own  day  and 
your  own  community  is  harder,  but  I  should  feel  it 
more  rewarding." 

"But  aren't  the  English  books  really  better? 
Haven't  they  more  depth,  substance  and  back 
ground?" 

"Possibly, — according  to  the  conventions  they 
themselves  have  established — and  according  to  the  so 
ciety  they  depict," 

"Well,  Academe  hasn't  nailed  you  yet !" 

"No;  and  I  hope  it  won't.  I  should  like  to  write 
a  whole  book  about  our  new  men." 

"But  don't  write  a  thesis  and  then  expect  to  pub 
lish  it  with  profit  as  a  book.  That's  a  common  enough 
expectation — or  temptation." 

They  turned  away  from  the  lake  terrace  and  the 
imposing  coal-pile.  Cope,  Randolph  saw,  was  in  quite 
a  glow;  a  generous  interest  had  touched  him,  put 
ting  fresh  light  into  his  eyes  and  a  new  vigor  into  his 
step.  He  had  displayed  a  charming  enthusiasm,  and 
a  pure,  disinterested  one.  Randolph,  under  a  quiet 
exterior,  was  delighted.  He  liked  the  boy  better  than 
ever,  and  felt  more  than  ever  prompted  to  attach  him 
to  himself. 

"How   are   you   pleased   with  your   present   quar- 


COPE  AMIDST  CROSS-PURPOSES          115 

ters?"  he  asked,  as  they  returned  through  the  Botany 
court.  He  thought  of  the  narrow  couch,  the  ink- 
spotted  cover  on  the  deal  table,  the  few  coats  and 
shoes  (they  couldn't  be  many)  behind  that  calico 
curtain. 

"None  too  well,"  replied  Cope.  "I  shall  soon  begin 
to  look  for  another  ropm.  I  rather  expect  to  change 
about  holiday  time." 

"I  am  thinking  of  making  a  change  too,"  declared 
Randolph. 

"Why,  could  you  better  yourself?"  asked  Cope,  in 
a  tone  of  surprise.  "I  never  knew  a  bachelor  to  be 
better  fixed." 

"I  need  a  little  wider  margin  of  room.  I  can  afford 
it,  and  ought  to  have  had  it  long  ago.  And  I  learn 
that  the  lease  of  the  people  Fm  with  expires  in  the 
spring.  My  collection  is  growing;  and  I  ought  to 
have  another  bedroom.  Think  of  not  being  able  to 
put  a  man  up,  on  occasion !  I  shall  take  a  small  apart 
ment  on  my  own  account,  catch  some  Oriental  who 
is  studying  frogs'  legs  or  Occidental  theology ;  and 
then — open  house.  In  a  moderate  measure,  of  course." 

"That  listens  good — as  the  young  fellows  say,"  re 
plied  Cope.  "A  not  uncommon  ideal,  possibly;  but 
I'm  glad  that  some  man,  now  and  then,  is  able  to 
realize  it." 

"I  should  hope  to  see  you  there,"  said  Randolph 
intently. 

"Thank  3^011,  Indeed.  Yes,  while  my  time  lasts.  But 
my  own  lease  is  like  your  landlord's — short.  Next 
year, — who  knows  where?" 


116  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

"Why  not  here?" 

"Oh!"  Cope  shrugged,  as  if  conscious  of  the  need 
of  something  better,  and  of  presently  deserving  it. 
"Some  big  university  in  the  East?"  wondered  Ran 
dolph  to  himself.  Well,  the  transfer,  if  it  came,  was 
still  a  long  way  ahead. 

As  he  walked  home  to  dinner  he  entertained  him 
self  by  imagining  his  new  regime.  There  would  be 
an  alert,  intelligent  Jap,  who,  in  some  miraculous  way, 
could  "do  for  him"  between  his  studies.  There  would 
be  a  cozy  dining-room  where  three  or  four  fellows 
could  have  a  snug  little  dinner,  with  plenty  of  good 
talk  during  it  and  after  it.  There  would  be,  finally, 
a  convenient  little  spare  room,  wherein  a  young  knight, 
escaped  from  some  "Belle  Dame  sans  Merci,"  might 
lean  his  sword  against  the  wardrobe,  prop  his  greaves 
along  the  baseboard,  lay  his  steel  gauntlets  neatly  on 
the  top  of  the  dresser,  fold  his  hands  over  the  turned- 
down  sheet  of  a  neat  three-quarter-width  brass  bed 
stead,  and  with  a  satisfied  sigh  of  utter  well-being  pass 
away  into  sleep.  Such  facilities,  even  if  they  scarcely 
equaled  a  chateau  on  the  Ridge  or  a  villa  among  the 
Dunes,  might  serve. 

Cope,  on  his  own  way  to  dinner,  indulged  in  par 
allel  imaginings.  He  saw  a  larger  room  than  his 
present,  with  more  furniture  and  better;  a  bookcase 
instead  of  a  shelf;  a  closet,  and  hot  and  cold  water 
in  some  convenient  alcove ;  a  second  table,  with  a  per 
colator  on  it,  at  which  Arthur,  who  was  a  light  sleeper 
nnd  willingly  an  early  riser,  might  indulge  his  knack 
for  coffee-making  to  the  advantage  of  them  both. 


COPE  AMIDST  CROSS-PURPOSES          117 

And  Arthur  had  the  same  blessed  facility  with  toast. 
Then  his  thoughts  made  an  excursion  toward  Ran 
dolph.  Here  was  a  man  who  was  in  business  in  the 
city,  and  who  was  related,  by  marriage,  to  the  board 
of  trustees.  How  soon  might  one  feel  sufficiently  well 
acquainted  with  him  to  ask  his  friendly  offices  in 
behalf  of  the  new-comer, — the  man  who  might  reason 
ably  be  expected  the  first  week  in  January? 


CHAPTER  XIII 

COPE  DINES  AGAIN— AND  STAYS  AFTER 

MEDORA  PHILLIPS'  social  activities  ran  through  sev 
eral  social  strata  and  her  entertainments  varied  to 
correspond.  Sometimes  she  contented  herself  with 
mere  boy-and-girl  affairs,  which  were  thrown  together 
from  material  gathered  within  her  own  household  and 
from  the  humbler  walks  of  undergraduate  life.  Some 
times  she  entertained  literary  celebrities,  and  invited 
the  head  professors  and  their  wives  to  meet  them. 
And  two  or  three  times  a  season  she  gave  real  dinners 
to  "society,"  summoning  to  Ashburn  avenue,  from 
homes  even  more  architectural  than  her  own,  the  bank 
ing  and  wholesale  families  whose  incomes  were  de 
rived  from  the  city,  but  who  pillared  both  the  uni 
versity  and  the  many  houses  of  worship  in  Church- 
ton  itself.  And  sometimes,  when  she  passed  over  the 
older  generation  of  these  families  in  favor  of  the 
younger,  her  courses  were  more  "liberal"  than  Church- 
ton's  earlier  standards  quite  approved. 

On  such  formal  occasions  her  three  young  ladies 
were  dispensed  with.  They  were  encouraged  to  go  to 
some  sorority  gathering  or  to  some  fudge-party.  On 
the  occasion  now  meditated  she  had  another  young 
person  in  mind.  This  was  the  granddaughter  of  one 
of  the  banking  families ;  the  girl  might  come  along 

118 


COPE  DINES  AGAIN  119 

with  her  father  and  mother.  She  was  not  very  pretty, 
not  very  entertaining;  however,  Mrs.  Phillips  needed 
one  girl,  and  if  she  were  not  very  attractive,  none  the 
worse.  The  one  girl  was  for  the  one  young  man.  The 
one  young  man  was  to  be  Bertram  Cope.  Our  fond 
lady  meant  to  have  him  and  to  show  him  off,  sure  that 
her  choicest  circle  could  not  but  find  him  as  charming 
as  she  herself  did.  Most  of  us,  at  one  time  or  an 
other,  have  thrust  forward  our  preferences  in  the 
same  confident  way. 

Cope  made  less  of  an  impression  than  his  patroness 
had  hoped  for.  Somehow  his  lithe  youthfulness,  his 
fine  hair  and  teeth  and  eyes,  the  rich  resonance  of  his 
voice  counted  for  little — except,  perhaps,  with  the 
granddaughter.  The  middle-aged  people  about  him 
were  used  to  young  college  men  and  indifferent  to 
them.  Cope  himself  felt  that  he  was  in  a  new  environ 
ment,  and  a  loftier  one.  Several  of  these  were  im 
portant  people,  with  names  familiar  through  the  town 
and  beyond.  He  employed  a  caution  that  almost 
became  :nexpressiveness.  He  also  found  Mrs.  Phillips 
a  shade  more  formal  and  stately  than  her  wont.  She 
herself,  in  her  furtive  survey  of  the  board,  was  dis 
appointed  to  find  that  he  was  not  telling.  "Perhaps 
it's  that  girl,"  she  thought;  "she  may  be  even  duller 
than  I  supposed."  But  never  mind;  all  would  be 
made  right  later.  Some  music  had  been  arranged  and 
there  would  be  an  accompanist  who  would  help  him 
do  himself  full  justice. 

"They'll  enjoy  him,"  she  thought  confidently. 

She  had  provided  an  immensity  of  flowers.     There 


120  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

was  an  excess  of  light,  both  from  electric  bulbs  and 
from  candles.  And  there  was  wine. 

"I  think  I  can  have  just  one  kind,  for  once,"  she 
had  said  to  herself.  "I  know  several  houses  where 
they  have  two, — Churchton  or  not, — and  at  least 
one  where  they  sometimes  have  three.  If  this  simple 
town  thinks  I  can  put  grape- juice  and  Apollinaris 
before  such  people  as  these  .  .  ."  Besides,  the 
interesting  Cope  might  interestingly  refuse! 

As  the  many  courses  moved  on,  Cope  smelt  the 
flowers,  which  were  too  many,  and  some  of  them  too 
odoriferous;  he  blinked  at  the  lights  and  breathed 
the  heavy  thickening  air;  and  he  took — interestingly 
— a  few  sips  of  burgundy, — for  he  was  now  in  Rome, 
and  no  longer  a  successful  protestant  in  some  lesser 
town  of  the  empire.  He  had  had  a  hard,  close  day  of 
it,  busy  indoors  with  themes  and  with  general  read 
ing;  and  he  recalled  being  glad  that  the  dinner  had 
begun  with  reasonable  promptitude, — for  he  had  both 
ered  with  no  lunch  beyond  a  glass  of  milk  and  a  roll. 
To-night  there  had  been  everything, — even  to  an  un 
necessary  entree.  He  laid  down  a  spoon  on  his  plate, 
glad  that  the  frozen  pudding — of  whatever  sort — 
was  disposed  of.  Too  much  of  everything  after  too 
little.  The  people  opposite  were  far  away ;  their  mur 
muring  had  become  a  mumbling,  and  he  wished  it  was 
all  over.  The  granddaughter  at  his  elbow  was  less 
rewarding  than  ever,  less  justificatory  of  the  effortful 
small-talk  which  he  had  put  forth  with  more  and  more 
labor,  and  which  he  could  scarcely  put  forth  now  at 
all.  What  was  it  he  was  meaning  to  do  later?  To 


COPE  DINES  AGAIN  121 

sing?  Absurd!  Impossible!  His  head  ached;  he 
felt  faint  and  dizzy  .  .  . 

"We  will  leave  you  gentlemen  to  your  cigars,"  he 
heard  a  distant  voice  saying;  and  he  was  conscious 
for  an  instant  that  his  hostess  was  looking  down  the 
table  at  him  with  a  face  of  startled  concern.  .  .  . 

"Don't  try  to  lead  him  out,"  a  deep  voice  said. 
"Lay  him  on  the  floor." 

He  felt  himself  lowered ;  some  small  rug  was  doubled 
and  redoubled  and  placed  under  his  head;  a  large, 
firm  hand  was  laid  to  his  wrist;  and  something — a 
napkin  dipped  in  a  glass  of  water  and  then  folded? — 
was  put  to  his  forehead. 

"His  pulse  will  come  up  in  a  minute,"  he  heard  the 
same  deep  voice  say.  "If  he  had  taken  a  step  he  would 
have  fainted  altogether." 

"My  poor,  dear  boy!  Whatever  in  the  world 
.  .  . !"  Thus  Medora  Phillips. 

"Better  not  be  moved  for  a  little,"  was  the  next 
pronouncement. 

Cope  lay  there  inert,  but  reasonably  conscious  of 
what  was  going  on.  His  eyes  gave  him  no  aid,  but 
his  ears  were  open.  He  heard  the  alarmed  voice  of 
Medora  Phillips  directing  the  disconcerted  maids,  and 
the  rustle  and  flutter  of  the  garments  of  other  daugh 
ters  of  Eve,  who  had  found  him  interesting  at  last. 
They  remarked  appreciatively  on  his  pallor;  and  one 
of  them  said,  next  day,  before  forgetting  him  alto 
gether,  that,  with  his  handsome  profile  (she  mentioned 
especially  his  nose  and  chin)  and  with  his  colorless- 
ness,  he  looked  for  a  moment  like  an  ancient  cameo. 


122  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

He  knew,  now,  that  he  was  not  going  to  faint,  and 
that  he  was  in  better  case  than  he  seemed.  In  the 
circumstances  he  found  nothing  more  original  to  say 
than:  "I  shall  be  all  right  in  no  time;  just  a  touch 
of  dizziness  .  .  ."  He  was  glad  his  dress-coat 
could  stand  inspection,  and  hoped  nobody  would  notice 
that  his  shoes  had  been  half-soled  .  .  . 

After  a  little  while  he  was  led  away  to  a  couch  in 
the  library.  The  deep-voiced  doctor  was  on  one  side 
of  him  and  Medora  Phillips  on  the  other.  Soon  he 
was  left  alone  to  recuperate  in  the  dark, — alone,  save 
for  one  or  two  brief,  fluttery  appearances  by  Mrs. 
Phillips  herself,  who  allowed  the  coffee  to  be  passed 
without  any  supervision  on  her  own  part. 

On  the  second  of  these  visitations  he  found  voice 
to  say: 

"I'm  so  sorry  for  this — and  so  ashamed.  I  can't 
think  how  it  could  have  happened." 

He  was  ashamed,  of  course.  He  had  broken  up  an 
entertainment  pretty  completely!  Servants  running 
about  for  him  when  they  had  enough  to  do  for  the 
company  at  large !  All  the  smooth  conventions  of 
dinner-giving  violently  brushed  the  wrong  way!  He 
had  fallen  by  the  roadside,  a  young  fellow  who  had 
rather  prided  himself  on  his  health  and  vigor.  Pitiful ! 
He  was  glad  to  lie  in  the  dark  with  his  eyes  shut  tight, 
tight. 

If  he  had  been  fifteen  or  twenty  years  older  he  might 
have  taken  it  all  rather  more  lightly.  Basil  Ran 
dolph,  now But  Randolph  had  not  been  invited, 

though  his  sister  and  her  husband  were  of  the  com- 


COPE  DINES  AGAIN  123 

pany.  Yet  had  it  been  Randolph,  he  would  have 
smiled  a  wan  smile  and  tried  for  a  mild  joke,  conscious 
that  he  had  made  an  original  and  picturesque  con 
tribution  to  the  affair, — had  broken  the  bland  banality 
of  routined  dinner-giving  and  had  provided  woman 
with  a  mighty  fine  chance  to  "minister"  and  fuss:  a 
thing  she  rather  enjoyed  doing,  especially  if  a  hap 
less,  helpless  man  had  been  delivered  into  her  hands 
as  a  subject. 

But  there  was  no  such  consolation  for  poor  abashed 
Cope.  He  had  disclosed  himself,  for  some  reason  or 
other,  a  weakling;  and  he  had  weakened  at  a  con 
spicuously  wrong  time  and  in  a  conspicuously  mis 
taken  place.  He  had  hoped,  over  the  cigars  and  coffee, 
to  lay  the  foundation  of  an  acquaintance  with  the 
brother-in-law  who  was  a  trustee, — to  set  up  an  iden 
tity  in  this  influential  person's  mind  as  a  possible  help 
to  the  future  of  Arthur  Lemoyne.  But  the  man  now 
in  the  dining-room,  or  the  drawing-room,  or  wherever, 
might  as  well  be  in  the  next  state. 

There  came  a  slight  patter  of  rain  on  the  bay-win 
dow  near  his  head.  He  began  to  wonder  how  he  was 
to  get  home. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  drawing-room,  among  the  ladies, 
Mrs.  Phillips  was  anxiously  asking:  "Was  the  room 
too  warm?  Could  the  wine  have  been  too  much  for 
him?"  And  out  in  the  dining-room  itself,  one  man 
said,  "Heaven  knows  just  how  they  live;"  and  another, 
"Or  what  they  eat,  or  don't  eat;"  and  a  third,  "Or 
just  how  hard  these  young  beginners  are  driven." 

"Ought  he  to  go  out  to-night,  Doctor?"  asked  Mrs. 


124  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

Phillips  in  a  whisper,  appearing  in  the  dining-room 
door. 

"He  might  better  stay  if  he  can,"  replied  the  author 
ity,  who  happened  to  be  at  the  nearer  end  of  the 
table. 

"Of  course  he  can,"  she  returned.  Of  course  there 
was  a  room  for  him. 

When  the  party  finally  reassembled  in  the  drawing- 
room  Cope  had  disappeared.  Mrs.  Phillips  could  now 
enlarge  on  his  attractiveness  as  a  singer,  and  could 
safely  assure  them — what  she  herself  believed — that 
they  had  lost  a  really  charming  experience.  "If  you 
could  only  have  heard  him  that  Sunday !"  she  con 
cluded. 

Cope  had  said,  of  course,  "I  can  get  home  per 
fectly  well,"  and,  "It's  a  shame  for  me  to  be  putting 
you  out  this  way,"  and  so  on  and  on, — the  things  you 
yourself  would  have  said  in  the  circumstances ;  but  he 
said  them  with  no  particular  spirit,  and  was  glad, 
as  he  walked  uncertainly  up  stairs,  that  he  had  not 
far  to  go. 

Mrs.  Phillips  indeed  "had  a  room  for  him."  She 
had  rooms  a-plenty.  There  was  the  chintz  chamber 
on  the  third  floor,  where  the  Irish  poet  (who  seemed 
not  to  expect  very  much  for  himself)  had  been  put; 
and  there  was  the  larger,  handsomer  chamber  on  the 
second  floor,  where  the  Hindoo  philosopher  (who  had 
loomed  up  big  and  important  through  a  vague  Oriental 
atmosphere)  had  been  installed  in  state.  It  was  a 
Louis  Quinze  room,  and  the  bed  had  a  kind  of  silken 
canopy  and  a  great  deal  too  much  in  the  way  of  bol- 


COPE  DINES  AGAIN  125 

sters  and  lace  coverings.  It  was  thought  that  the 
Hindoo,  judging  from  the  report  of  the  maid  next 
morning,  had  been  moved  by  some  ascetic  impulse  to 
sleep  not  in  the  bed  but  on  the  floor  beside  it.  This 
was  the  room  now  destined  for  Cope ;  surely  one  flight 
of  stairs  was  enough.  But  there  must  be  no  further 
practice  of  asceticism, — least  of  all  by  a  man  who  was 
really  ill;  so  Mrs.  Phillips,  snatching  a  moment  from 
her  guests,  herself  saw  the  maid  remove  the  lace  pil 
low-shams  and  coverlet,  and  turn  down  the  sheets, 
and  set  the  thermos-bottle  on  the  stand  beside  the 
reading  lamp  .  .  . 

"Don't  get  up  a  moment  earlier  than  you  feel  like 
doing,"  she  said,  at  the  door.  "Breakfast " 

"To-morrow  is  one  of  my  busy  days,"  replied  Cope 
wanly.  "Goldsmith,  Sheridan  .  .  ." 

"Well,  we  have  other  wage-workers  in  the  house, 
you  know.  At  seven-thirty,  then,  if  you  must." 

"Seven-thirty,  if  you  please.     Thank  you." 

By  the  time  Mrs.  Phillips  had  returned  to  her 
guests,  the  first  of  the  limousines  was  standing  before 
the  house;  its  wet  top  shone  under  an  electric  globe. 
Her  own  car,  meanwhile,  obdurately  reposed  in  its 
garage.  Presently  a  second  limousine  joined  the  first, 
and  a  third  the  second;  and  in  another  quarter  of  an 
hour  her  guests  were  well  on  their  way  to  dispersal. 
She  bade  them  all  goodnight  in  the  best  of  good 
humor. 

"You've  never  before  had  quite  such  an  evening  as 
this,  I'm  sure!"  she  said,  with  great  gaiety. 

"Isn't  it  wonderful  how  she  took  it  all!"  said  one 


126  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

lady  to  another,  on  the  back  seat  of  her  car.  "Any 
thing  like  that  would  have  thrown  me  off  completely." 

The  other  lady  laughed  amusedly.  She  often  found 
our  Medora  "great  fun." 

Meanwhile,  Cope,  up  stairs,  was  sinking  deeper  and 
deeper  into  his  big,  wide,  overupholstered  bed.  And 
as  his  body  sank,  his  spirit  sank  with  it.  He  felt  poor, 
unimportant,  ill  at  ease.  In  especial,  he  felt  greatly 
subordinated ;  he  wished  that  he  might  have  capitulated 
to  a  man.  Then  the  mystery  of  handsome  houses  and 
of  handsome  furnishings  came  to  harass  him.  Such 
things  were  everywhere:  how  were  they  got,  how  were 

they  kept?  Should  he  himself  ever ?  But  no; 

nothing  ahead  for  years,  even  in  the  most  favorable 
of  circumstances,  save  an  assistant  professorship,  with 
its  inconceivably  modest  emoluments  .  . 

And  Medora  Phillips,  in  the  stir  of  getting  her 
guests  out  of  the  house,  had  her  first  vision  of  him 
as  sinking  off  to  sleep.  Somehow  or  other  his  fine, 
straight  yellow  hair  retained  its  backward  sweep  with 
no  impairment  by  reason  of  turnings  and  tossings; 
his  clear  profile  continued  to  keep  itself  disengaged 
from  any  depression  in  the  pillows;  his  slender  hands 
were  laid  in  quiet  symmetry  over  the  wide  edge  of  the 
down-turned  coverlet.  A  decorous,  unperturbed 
young  old-master  .  .  .  Van  Eyck  .  .  .  Car- 
paccio  .  .  . 

Cope  came  down  to  breakfast  a  little  pale,  a  little 
shame-faced;  but  he  felt  pretty  well  revived  and  he 
made  up  in  excess  of  speech  and  action  what  he  essen 
tially  lacked  in  spirit.  Mrs.  Phillips  descended  as 


COPE  DINES  AGAIN  127 

early  as  the  three  girls, — earlier,  in  fact,  than  Hor- 
tense,  who  entered  informally  through  the  butler's 
pantry  and  apparently  in  full  possession  of  last  night's 
facts.  Carolyn  inquired  civilly  after  his  condition; 
Amy  Leffingwell,  with  her  blue  eyes  intent  upon  him, 
expressed  concern  and  sympathy;  Hortense,  with  her 
lips  closely  shut  in  a  satirical  smile,  said  nothing  at 
all :  a  possible  exhibition  of  self-control  which  gave  her 
aunt  some  measure  of  solicitude.  It  was  not  always 
well  when  she  talked,  and  it  was  not  always  well  when 
she  kept  silent.  Mrs.  Phillips  pressed  the  toast  upon 
him  and  recommended  the  grape-fruit.  He  took  both 
with  satisfaction,  and  a  second  cup  of  coffee.  With 
that  he  felt  he  could  easily  walk  to  his  class-room; 
and  the  walk  itself,  in  the  fresh  morning  air,  would 
brace  him  further  for  his  hours  of  routine  with  his 
students. 

"What  a  regular  nuisance  I've  made  of  myself !" 
he  said,  on  leaving  the  house. 

"Oh,  haven't  you,  just!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Phillips 
joyously.  "Your  name  as  an  entertainer  will  be  all 
over  town !  I'm  sure  you  gave  some  of  those  poky 
people  a  real  touch  of  novelty !" 

Amy  Leffingwell  was  in  the  front  hall  at  the  same 
time,  with  her  music-roll.  They  were  going  the  same 
way,  to  substantially  the  same  place,  to  meet  about 
the  same  hour  in  the  day's  schedule.  They  went  along 
the  street  together. 

The  morning  air  was  brisk  and  cool  after  last 
night's  shower.  Like  the  trees  under  which  they 
passed,  it  gave  the  first  decided  intimation  of  autumn. 


128  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

They  set  off  at  a  lively  pace  toward  the  college  towers 
and  the  lake. 

Cope  was  soon  sailing  along  with  his  head  high,  his 
trim  square  shoulders  much  in  action,  and  his  feet 
throwing  themselves  spiritedly  here  and  there.  Amy, 
who  was  not  very  tall,  kept  up  as  well  as  she  could. 

"This  isn't  too  fast  for  you  .  .  .  ?"  she  asked 
presently. 

"No ;  but  it  may  be  a  little  too  fast  for  you.  Ex 
cuse  me;  I've  never  learned  to  keep  pace  with  a 
woman.  But  as  for  myself,  I  never  felt  better  in 
my  life.  Every  yard  toward  the  good  old  lake" — 
the  wind  was  coming  down  from  the  north  in  a  great 
sweep — "makes  me  feel  finer." 

He  slowed  up  appreciably. 

"Oh,  not  for  me!"  she  said  in  deprecation.  "I  like 
a  brisk  morning  walk  as  well  as  anybody.  Did  you 
sing  at  all?"  she  asked. 

"Not  a  note.  They  put  the  soft  pedal  on  me.  They 
'muted'  me,"  he  amended,  in  deference  to  her  own 
branch  of  the  profession. 

"We  came  in  by  the  side  door  about  half  past  nine. 
It  was  a  dull  meeting.  I  listened  for  you.  Somebody 
was  playing." 

Cope  gave  a  sly  smile. 

"It  must  have  been  the  poor  disappointed  woman 
who  was  to  have  accompanied  me.  She  had  had  a  list 
of  three  or  four  of  my  things — to  run  them  over  in 
her  own  album,  I  suppose.  Think  just  how  disap 
pointed  she  must  have  been  to  find  that  she  had  the 
whole  field  to  herself!" 


COPE  DINES  AGAIN  129 

"Oh,  musicians — even  we  poor,  despised  profes 
sionals — are  not  all  like  that.  If  it  had  been  arranged 
for  me  to  accompany  you  with  an  obbligato,  I 
shouldn't  have  been  pleased  if  opportunity  had  failed 
me." 

"Your  contribution  would  have  been  more  important 
than  hers.  And  your  substitution  for  my  failure 
would  have  given  added  interest." 

The  talk,  having  reached  the  zone  of  arid  compli 
ment,  tended  to  languish.  They  had  now  reached 
Learning's  side  of  the  trolley-tracks,  and  rills  in  the 
great  morning  flood  of  the  scholastic  life  were  begin 
ning  to  gather  about  them  and  to  unite  in  a  rolling 
stream  which  flowed  toward  the  campus. 

Two  or  three  streets  on,  the  pair  separated,  she 
to  her  work,  he  to  his.  For  him  the  walk  had  been 
a  nothing  in  particular — he  would  a  little  have  pre 
ferred  taking  it  alone.  For  her  it  had  been — despite 
the  low  level  of  expressiveness  reached  on  either  side 
— a  privilege  which  had  been  curtailed  much  too  soon. 

Meanwhile,  back  in  the  house,  Hortense  was  detail 
ing  the  events  of  the  previous  evening  to  Joe  Foster : 
the  general  access  of  activity  on  the  morning  after  had 
made  it  desirable  that  she  help  with  his  breakfast. 

She  went  at  it  with  a  will. 

"Why,"  she  said,  as  Foster  sat  at  his  coffee,  boiled 
egg  and  toast,  "he  keeled  over  like  a  baby." 

"Hum !"  said  Foster  darkly.  It  was  as  if  a  shaping 
ideal  had  dissipated.  Or  as  if  a  trace  of  weakness  in 
one  seemingly  so  young  and  strong  was  not  altogether 
unacceptable  as  a  source  of  consolation. 


130  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

However,  Cope,  at  half  past  four  that  afternoon, 
was  on  the  faculty  tennis-courts,  with  a  racquet  in 
his  hand.  But  one  set  was  enough.  "I  seem  to  be  a 
day  ahead  of  my  schedule,"  he  said,  pulling  out  and 
strolling  along  homeward. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
COPE  MAKES  AN  EVASION 

Two  or  three  days  later,  Randolph  put  a  book  of 
essays  in  his  pocket  and  went  round  to  spend  an  hour 
with  Joseph  Foster.  Foster  sat  in  his  wheeled  chair 
in  his  own  room.  He  was  knitting.  The  past  year 
or  two  had  brought  knitting-needles  into  countenance 
for  men,  and  he  saw  no  reason  why  he  should  not  put 
a  few  hanks  of  yarn  into  shape  useful  for  himself.  He 
might  not  have  full  command  of  his  limbs  nor  of  his 
eyes,  but  he  did  have  full  command  of  his  fingers.  He 
had  begun  to  knit  socks  for  his  own  use;  and  even  a 
muffler,  in  the  hope  that  on  some  occasion,  during  the 
coming  months,  he  might  get  outside. 

As  Randolph  entered,  Foster  looked  up  from  un 
der  his  green  shade  with  an  expression  of  perplexity. 
"Have  I  dropped  a  stitch  here  or  not?"  he  asked.  "I 
wish  you  knew  something  about  knitting;  I  don't  like 
to  call  Medora  or  one  of  the  girls  away  up  here  to 
straighten  me  out.  Look;  what  do  you  think?" 

"They  count  all  right,"  said  Randolph;  and  he  sat 
down  on  the  couch  opposite.  "I've  brought  a  book." 

"I  hope  it's  poetry!"  said  Foster,  with  a  fierce 
promptness.  "I  hope  it's  about  Adonis,  or  Thammuz, 
whose  mishap  'in  Lebanon'  set  all  the  Syrian  females 

131 


132  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

a-going.  I  could  stand  a  lot  more  of  that, — or  per 
haps  I  couldn't !" 

"Why,  Joe,  what's  gone  wrong?" 

"I  suppose  you  know  that  your  young  friend  got  up 
a  great  to-do  for  us  the  other  evening?" 

"Yes;  I've  heard  something  about  it."  He  looked 
at  Foster's  drawn  face,  and  heard  with  surprise  the 
rasping  note  in  his  voice.  "Was  it  as  bad  as  that?" 

Foster  drew  his  shade  down  farther  over  his  eyes 
and  clashed  his  needles  together. 

"I  remember  how,  when  I  was  in  Florence,  we  went 
out  to  a  religious  festival  one  evening  at  some  small 
hill-town  near  by.  This  was  twenty  years  ago,  when  I 
could  travel.  There  was  a  kind  of  grotto  in  the 
church,  under  the  high  altar ;  and  in  the  grotto  was  a 
full-sized  figure  of  a  dead  man,  carved  and  painted — 
and  covered  with  wounds ;  and  round  that  figure  half 
the  women  and  girls  of  the  town  were  collected,  strok 
ing,  kissing  .  .  .  Adonis  all  over  again !" 

"Oh,  come,  Joe;  don't  get  morbid." 

Foster  lifted  one  shoulder. 

"Well,  the  young  fellow  began  by  roaring  through 
the  house  like  a  bull  of  Bashan,  and  he  ended  by  top 
pling  over  like  a  little  wobbly  calf." 

He  spoke  like  a  man  who  had  imaged  a  full  measure 
of  physical  powers  and  had  envied  them  .  .  .  had 
been  exasperated  by  the  exuberant  presentation  of 
them  .  .  .  had  felt  a  series  of  contradictory  emo 
tions  when  they  had  seemed  to  fail  .  . 

"It  was  only  a  moment  of  dizziness,"  said  Ran 
dolph.  "I  imagine  he  was  fairly  himself  next  day." 


COPE  MAKES  AN  EVASION  133 

"Well,  I've  heard  too  much  about  it.  Medora  came 
up  here  and " 

"Need  we  go  into  that?" 

"There  were  plenty  more  to  help,"  Foster  went  on 
doggedly.  "One  dear  creature,  who  was  old  enough  to 
be  more  cautious,  spilt  water  down  the  whole  front  of 
her  dress " 

"I  expect,"  said  Randolph,  "that  the  poor  chap 
has  been  overworked ;  or  careless  about  his  meals ;  or 
worried  in  his  classes — for  he  may  not  be  fully  settled 
in  his  new  place;  or  some  emotional  strain  may  have 
set  itself  up " 

"I  vote  for  the  emotional  strain,"  said  Foster 
bluntly. 

"A  guess  in  the  dark,"  commented  Randolph,  and 
paused.  He  himself  knew  little  enough  of  Cope  as  a 
complex.  He  had  met  him  but  a  few  times,  and  could 
not  associate  him  with  his  unknown  background.  He 
knew  next  to  nothing  of  Cope's  family,  his  connections, 
his  intimates,  his  early  associations  and  experiences. 
Nor  had  he  greatly  bestirred  himself  to  learn.  He 
had  done  little  more  than  go  to  a  library  in  the  city 
and  turn  over  the  leaves  of  the  Freeford  directory. 
This  publication,  like  most  of  those  dealing  with  the 
smaller  cities,  gave  separately  the  names  of  all  the 
members  of  a  family ;  and  repetitions  of  the  same 
address  helped  toward  the  arrangement  of  these  in 
dividuals  (disposed  alphabetically)  into  family  groups. 
Freeford  had  no  great  number  of  Copes,  and  several 
of  them  lived  at  1636  Cedar  Street.  "Elm,  Pine, 
Locust,  Cedar,"  had  thought  Randolph;  "the  regular 


134  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

set."  And,  "One  of  the  good  streets,"  he  surmised, 
"but  rather  far  out.  Cedar !"  he  repeated,  and  thought 
of  Lebanon  and  the  Miltonic  Adonis.  Of  these  various 
Copes,  "Cope,  David  L.,  bookpr,"  might  be  the 
father, — unless  "Cope,  Leverett  C.,  mgr"  were  the 
right  man.  If  the  former,  he  was  employed  by  the 
Martin  &  Graves  Furniture  Company,  and  the  Martins 
were  probably  important  people  who  lived  far  out — 
and  handsomely,  one  might  guess — on  a  Prospect  Ave 
nue.  .  .  .  Then  there  was  "Cope,  Miss  Rosalys 
M.,  schooltchr,"  same  address  as  "David":  she  was 
likely  his  daughter.  "H'm !"  Randolph  had  thought, 
"these  pickings  are  scanty, — enough  anatomical  re 
construction  for  to-day.  .  .  ."  And  now  he  was 
thinking,  as  he  sat  opposite  Foster,  "If  I  had  only 
picked  up  another  bone  or  two,  I  might  really  have 
put  together  the  domestic  organism.  Yet  why  should 
1  trouble?  It  would  all  be  plain,  humdrum  prose,  no 
doubt.  Glamour  doesn't  spread  indefinitely.  And 
then — men's  brothers  .  .  ." 

"Well,"  asked  Foster  sharply,  "are  you  mooning? 
Medora  sat  in  the  same  place  yesterday,  and  she 
talked  for  awhile  too  and  then  fell  into  a  moonstruck 
silence.  What's  it  all  about?" 

Randolph  came  out  of  his  reverie.  "Oh,  I  was  just 
hoping  the  poor  boy  was  back  on  his  pins  all  right 
again." 

Then  he  dropped  back  into  thought.  He  was  de 
vising  an  outing  designed  to  restore  Cope  to  condition. 
If  Cope  could  arrange  for  a  free  Saturday,  they 
might  contrive  a  week-end  from  Friday  afternoon  to 


COPE  MAKES  AN  EVASION  135 

Monday  morning.  It  was  too  late  for  the  north  and 
too  late  for  the  opposite  Michigan  shore;  but  there 
was  "down  state"  itself,  where  the  days  grew  warmer 
and  the  autumn  younger  the  farther  south  one  went. 
There  was  a  trip  down  a  certain  historic  river, — his 
toric,  as  our  rivers  went,  and  admirably  scenic  al 
ways.  He  recalled  an  exceptional  hotel  on  one  of  its 
best  reaches ;  one  overrun  in  midsummer,  but  doubtless 
quiet  at  this  season.  It  stood  in  the  midst  of  some 
striking  cliffs  and  gorges ;  and  possibly  one  of  the 
little  river-steamers  was  in  commission,  or  could  be 
induced  to  run 

Foster  dropped  his  muffler  pettishly.  "Read, — if 
you  won't  talk!" 

"I  can  talk  all  right,"  returned  Randolph.  "In 
fact,  I  have  a  bit  of  news  for  you." 

"What  is  it?" 

"I'm  going  to  move." 

Foster  peered  out  from  under  his  shade. 

"Move?  What  for?  I  thought  you  were  all  right 
where  you  are." 

"All  right  enough ;  except  that  I  want  more  room 
— and  a  house  of  my  own." 

"Have  you  found  one?" 

"I've  about  decided  on  an  apartment.  And  I  ex 
pect  to  move  into  it  early  next  month." 

"Top  floor,  of  course?" 

"No ;  first  floor,  not  six  feet  above  the  street  level." 

"Good.  If  they'll  lend  me  a  hand  here,  to  get 
down  and  out,  I'll  come  and  see  you,  now  and  then." 

"Do  so." 


136  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

"That  will  give  me  a  chance  to  wear  this  muffler, 
after  all." 

"So  it  will." 

"Well,  be  a  little  more  cordial.  You  expect  to  see 
your  friends,  don't  you?" 

"Of  course.  That's  what  it's  for.  Have  I  got  to 
exert  myself,"  he  added,  '"to  be  cordial  with  you?" 

"What's  the  neighborhood?" 

"Oh,  this  one,  substantially.  The  next  street  from 
where  I  am  now." 

"Housekeeper  ?" 

"I  think  I'll  have  a  Jap  alone,  at  first." 

"Dinners?" 

"A  few  small  try-outs,  perhaps." 

"Mixed  parties?" 

"Not  at  the  beginning,  anyhow." 

"Oh;  bachelor's  hall." 

"About  that." 

Foster  readjusted  his  shade,  and  drove  his  needles 
into  his  ball  of  yarn. 

"Complete  new  outfit?" 

"Well,  I  have  some  things  in  storage." 

"How  about  the  people  you're  with  now?" 

"Their  lease  is  up  in  the  spring.  They  may  go  on ; 
they  may  not.  Fall's  the  time  to  change." 

Foster  drew  out  his  needles  again  and  fell  to  work. 

"You  ought  to  have  seen  Hortense  the  next  morn 
ing.  She  put  my  tray  on  the  table,  and  then  went 
down  in  a  heap  on  the  floor — or  it  sounded  like  that. 
She  was  fainting  away  at  dinner,  she  said." 

"She  found  it  amusing?" 


COPE  MAKES  AN  EVASION  137 

"I  don't  know  how  she  found  it,"  returned  Foster 
shortly.  "If  ever  /  do  anything  like  that  at  your 
house,  run  me  home." 

"Not  if  it's  raining.  I  shall  be  able  to  tuck  you 
away  somewhere." 

"Don't.     I  never  asked  to  be  a  centre  of  interest." 

"Well,"  returned  Randolph  merely,  and  fell  silent. 

Foster  resumed  work  with  some  excess  of  vigor,  and 
presently  got  into  a  snarl.  "Dammit!"  he  exclaimed, 
"have  I  dropped  another?" 

Randolph  leaned  over  to  examine  the  work.  "Some 
thing's  wrong." 

"Well,  let  it  go.    Enough  for  now.    Read." 

There  followed  a  half  hour  of  historical  essay,  dur 
ing  which  Foster  a  few  times  surreptitiously  fingered 
his  needles  and  yarn. 

"Shall  you  have  a  reading-circle  at  your  new  dig 
gings  ?"  he  asked  after  a  while. 

"If  two  can  be  said  to  make  a  circle, — and  if  you 
will  really  come." 

"I'm  coming.  But  I  never  understood  that  only 
two  points  could  establish  a  circle.  Three,  anyway." 

"Circle!"  exclaimed  Randolph.  "Don't  worry  the 
word  to  death." 

He  went  away  presently,  and  as  he  walked  his 
thoughts  returned  to  Indian  Rock.  The  excursion 
seemed  a  valid  undertaking  at  an  advantageous  time; 
and  he  could  easily  spare  a  couple  of  days  from  the 
formation  of  his  new  establishment.  He  called  on 
Cope  that  evening.  Cope  felt  sure  he  could  clear 
things  for  Saturday,  and  expressed  pleasure  at  the 


138  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

general  prospect.  He  happened  to  be  writing  to 
Lemoyne  that  evening  and  passed  along  his  pleasure 
at  the  prospect  to  his  friend.  A  few  jaunts,  outings 
or  interludes  of  that  kind,  together  with  his  week  at 
his  home  in  Freeford,  over  Christmas,  would  agreeably 
help  fill  in  the  time  before  Arthur's  own  arrival  in 
January. 

Randolph  received  Cope's  response  with  gratifica 
tion;  it  was  pleasant  to  feel  oneself  acceptable  to  a 
younger  man.  In  the  intervals  between  his  early  look 
ing  at  rugs  and  napery  he  collected  timetables  and 
folders,  made  inquiries,  and  had  some  correspondence 
with  the  manager  of  the  admirable  hotel.  He  had  a 
fondness  for  well-kept  hostelries  just  before  or  just 
after  the  active  season.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  break 
fast  or  dine  in  some  far  corner  of  a  large  and  almost 
empty  dining-room.  It  would  be  a  pleasure  to  stroll 
through  those  gorges,  which  would  be  reasonably  cer 
tain  to  be  free  from  litter,  and  to  perch  on  the  crags, 
which  would  be  reasonably  certain  to  be  free  from  pic 
nic  parties.  It  would  be  agreeable  also  to  sleep  in  a 
chamber  far  from  town  noises  and  grimes,  with  few 
honks  from  late  excursionists  and  but  little  early 
morning  clatter  from  a  diminished  staff.  And  the 
river  boats  were  still  running  on  Sunday. 

"It  will  brace  him  for  the  rest  of  his  fall  term," 
thought  Randolph,  "and  me  for  my  confounded  shop 
ping.  And  during  some  one  of  our  boat-rides  or 
rambles,  I  shall  tell  him  of  my  plans  for  the  winter." 

The  departure,  it  was  agreed  upon,  should  take 
place  late  on  Friday  afternoon.  On  Friday,  at  half 


COPE  MAKES  AN  EVASION  139 

past  eleven,  Randolph,  at  his  office  in  the  city,  re 
ceived  a  long-distance  call  from  Churchton.  Cope 
announced,  with  a  breathless  particularity  not  alto 
gether  disassociated  from  self-conscious  gaucherie, 
that  he  should  be  unable  to  go.  Some  unexpected 
work  had  been  suddenly  thrown  upon  him  .  .  . 
He  rather  thought  that  one  or  two  of  his  family 
might  be  coming  to  town  for  over  Sunday  .  . 

The  telephone,  as  a  conveyor  of  unwelcome  mes 
sages,  strikes  a  medium  between  the  letter  by  mail  and 
the  face-to-face  interview.  If  it  does  not  quite  give 
chance  for  the  studied  guardedness  and  calculated 
plausibility  of  the  one,  it  at  least  obviates  some  of  the 
risk  involved  in  personal  presence  and  in  the  introduc 
tion  of  contradictory  evidence  often  contributed  by 
manner  and  by  facial  expression.  And  a  long  distance 
interview  must  be  brief, — at  least  there  can  be  no  sur 
prise,  no  indignation,  if  it  is  made  so. 

"Very  well,"  said  Randolph,  in  reply  to  Cope's 
hurried  and  indistinct  words.  "I'm  sorry,"  he  added, 
and  the  brief  talk  was  over.  "You  are  feeling  all 
right,  I  hope,"  he  would  have  added,  as  the  result  of 
an  afterthought ;  but  the  connection  was  broken. 

Randolph  left  the  instrument.  He  felt  dashed,  a 
good  deal  disappointed,  and  a  little  hurt.  He  took 
two  or  three  folders  from  a  pigeon-hole  and  dropped 
them  into  a  waste-basket.  Well,  the  boy  doubtless  had 
his  reasons.  But  a  single  good  one,  frankly  put  forth, 
would  have  been  better  than  duplicate  or  multiple  rea 
sons.  He  hoped  that,  on  Sunday,  a  cold  drizzle  rather 
than  a  flood  of  sunlight  might  fall  upon  the  autumn 


140  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

foliage  of  Indian  Rock.  And  he  would  turn  to-morrow 
to  good  account  by  looking,  for  an  hour  or  two,  at 
china. 

Sunday  afternoon  was  gorgeously  bright  and  au 
tumnal  in  Churchton,  whatever  it  may  have  been  along 
the  middle  reaches  of  the  Illinois  river ;  and  at  about 
four  o'clock  Randolph  found  himself  in  front  of  Me- 
dora  Phillips'  house.  Medora  and  her  young  ladies 
were  out  strolling,  as  was  inevitable  on  such  a  day; 
but  in  her  library  he  found  Foster  lying  on  a  couch — 
the  same  piece  of  furniture  which,  at  a  critical  junc 
ture,  had  comforted  Cope. 

"Peter  brought  me  down,"  said  the  cripple.  "I 
thought  I'd  rather  look  at  the  backs  of  books  than 
at  the  fronts  of  all  those  tedious  pictures.  Besides, 
I'm  beginning  to  practice  for  my  call  at  your  new 
quarters."  Then,  with  a  sudden  afterthought: 
"Why,  I  understood  you  were  going  somewhere  out 
of  town.  What  prevented?" 

"Well,  I  changed  my  plans.  I  needed  a  little  more 
time  for  my  house-furnishing.  I  was  looking  yester 
day  at  some  table-ware  for  your  use;  am  wondering, 
in  fact,  if  Mrs.  Phillips  couldn't  arrange  to  give  me 
the  benefit  of  her  taste  to-morrow  or  Tuesday  .  .  ." 

"She  likes  to  shop,"  replied  Foster,  "and  taste  is 
her  strong  suit.  I'll  speak  to  her, — she's  gone  off  to 
some  meeting  or  other.  Isn't  this  just  the  afternoon 
to  be  spending  indoors?"  he  commented  brusquely. 
"What  a  day  it  would  be  for  the  country,"  he  added, 
sending  his  ineffectual  glance  in  the  direction  of 
Randolph's  face. 


COPE  MAKES  AN  EVASION  141 

"We  Churchtonians  must  take  what  we  can  get," 
Randolph  replied,  with  an  attempt  at  indifference. 
"Our  rus  in  urbs  isn't  everything,  but  there  are  times 
when  it  must  be  made  to  serve." 

Foster  said  nothing.  Silent  conjecture,  seemingly, 
was  offered  him  as  his  part. 


CHAPTER  XV 

COPE  ENTERTAINS  SEVERAL  LADIES 

COPE'S  excuse,  involving  the  expected  visit  of  a  rela 
tive,  may  not  have  been  altogether  sincere,  but  it  re 
ceived,  within  a  week  or  so,  the  substantial  backing 
of  actuality :  a  relative  came.  She  was  an  aunt, — his 
father's  sister, — and  she  came  at  the  suggestion  of  a 
concerned  landlady.  This  person,  made  anxious  by  a 
languid  young  man  who  had  begged  off  from  his 
classes  and  who  was  likely  to  need  more  attention  than 
her  scanty  margin  of  leisure  could  grant,  had  even 
suggested  a  hospital  while  yet  it  was  easy  for  him  to 
reach  one.  Though  Cope  meant  to  leave  her  soon,  it 
did  not  suit  him  to  leave  her  quite  as  soon  as  this ; 
and  so  Aunt  Harriet  came  in  from  Freeford  to  look 
the  situation  over  and  to  lend  a  hand  if  need  be.  She 
spent  two  nights  in  a  vacant  chamber  at  transient 
rates ;  was  grudgingly  allowed  to  prepare  his  "slops," 
as  he  called  them,  in  the  kitchen;  and  had  time  to 
satisfy  herself  that,  after  all,  nothing  very  serious  was 
the  matter. 

Randolph  did  not  meet  this  relative,  but  he  heard 
about  her ;  and  her  coming,  as  a  sort  of  family  repre 
sentative,  helped  him  still  further  in  his  picture  of 
the  res  angusta  of  a  small-town  household:  a  father 
held  closely  to  office  or  warehouse — his  own  or  some 

142 


COPE  ENTERTAINS  SEVERAL  LADIES   143 

one  else's;  a  sister  confined  to  her  school- room;  a 
mother  who  found  the  demands  of  the  domestic  rou 
tine  too  exacting  even  to  allow  a  three-hour  trip  to 
town;  and  a  brother — Randolph  added  this  figure 
quite  gratuitously  out  of  an  active  imagination  and 
a  determined  desire  not  to  put  any  of  the  circle  to  the 
test  of  a  personal  encounter — and  a  brother  who  was 
perhaps  off  somewhere  "on  the  road." 

The  one  who  met  Aunt  Harriet  was  Medora  Phillips, 
and  the  meeting  was  brief.  Medora  had  heard  from 
Amy  Leffingwell  of  Cope's  absence  from  his  class-room. 
She  herself  became  concerned ;  she  felt  more  or  less 
responsible  and  possibly  a  bit  conscience-stricken. 
"Next  time,"  she  said,  "I  shall  try  to  have  the  ven 
tilation  right;  and  I  think  that,  after  this,  I  shall 
keep  to  birch  beer." 

Medora  called  up  Amy  at  the  music-school,  one 
afternoon,  at  about  four.  She  assumed  that  the  day's 
work  was  over,  told  Amy  she  was  "going  around"  to 
see  Bertram  Cope,  and  asked  her  to  go  with  her. 
"You  may  act  as  my  chaperon,"  she  said ;  "for  who 
knows  where  or  how  I  shall  find  him?" 

As  they  neared  the  house  a  colored  man  came  out, 
carrying  a  small  trunk  to  a  mud-bespattered  surrey. 
"What!  is  he  going?"  said  Medora,  with  a  start. 
"Well,  anyway,  we're  in  time  to  say  good-bye."  Then, 
"What's  the  matter,  Jasper?"  she  asked,  having  now 
recognized  the  driver  and  his  conveyance. 

"Got  a  lady  who's  gettin'  away  on  the  four  forty- 
three." 

"Oh !"  said  Medora,  with  a  gasp  of  reassurance. 


144  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

Cope's  aunt  had  said  good-bye  to  him  up  stairs  and 
was  now  putting  on  her  gloves  in  the  lower  hall,  in  the 
company  of  the  landlady.  Medora  appraised  the  visitor 
as  a  semi-rustic  person — one  of  some  substance  and 
standing  in  her  own  community ;  marriage,  perhaps, 
had  provided  her  with  means  and  leisure.  She  had 
been  willing  to  subordinate  herself  to  a  university 
town  apprehended  as  a  social  organism,  and  she  now 
seemed  inclined  to  accept  with  docility  any  observa 
tions  made  by  a  confident  urbanite  with  a  fair  degree 
of  verve. 

"These  young  men,"  said  Medora  dashingly,  "are 
too  careless  and  proud." 

"Proud?"  asked  the  other.  She  felt  clearly  enough 
that  her  nephew  had  been  careless ;  but  pride  is  not 
often  acknowledged  among  the  members  of  an  ordinary 
domestic  circle. 

"They're  all  mind,"  Medora  went  on,  with  no  lapse 
of  momentum.  She  knew  she  must  work  in  brief, 
broad  effects :  the  surrey  was  waiting  and  the  train 
would  not  delay.  "They  sometimes  forget  that  their 
intellectual  efforts  must  rest,  after  all,  on  a  good 
sensible  physical  basis.  They  mustn't  scorn  the  body." 

The  departing  visitor  gave  a  quick  little  sigh  of 
relief.  The  views  of  this  fashionable  and  forthputting 
woman  were  in  accord  with  her  own,  after  all. 

"Well,  I've  told  Bert,"  she  said,  buttoning  her  sec 
ond  glove,  "that  he  had  better  take  all  his  meals  in 
one  place  and  at  regular  hours.  I've  told  him  his 
health  is  of  just  as  much  account  as  his  students  and 
their  studies."  She  seemed  gratified  that,  on  an  im- 


COPE  ENTERTAINS  SEVERAL  LADIES   145 

portant  point,  she  had  reached  unanimity  with  an  in 
fluential  person  who  was  to  remain  behind;  and  she 
got  away  without  too  long  delaying  the  muddy  surrey 
and  the  ungroomed  sorrel. 

Medora  Phillips  looked  after  her  with  a  grimace. 
"Think  of  calling  him  'Bert' !" 

Cope,  when  advised,  came  down  in  a  sort  of  bath 
robe  which  he  made  do  duty  as  a  dressing-gown.  He 
took  the  stairs  in  a  rapid  run,  produced  an  emphatic 
smile  for  the  parlor  threshold,  and  put  a  good  measure 
of  energy  into  his  handshakes.  "Mighty  good  of  you 
to  call,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Phillips.  "Mighty  good  of 
you  to  call,"  he  said  to  Amy  Leffingwell. 

Well,  he  was  on  his  feet,  then.  No  chance  to  feel 
anxiously  the  brow  of  a  poor  boy  in  bed,  or  to  ask 
if  the  window  was  right  or  if  he  wouldn't  like  a  sip  of 
water.  Life's  little  disappointments  .  .  . ! 

To  Amy  Leffingwell  he  seemed  pale,  and  she  felt 
him  as  glad  to  sit  down  at  once  in  the  third  and  last 
chair  the  little  room  offered.  She  noticed,  too,  an 
inkstain  on  his  right  forefinger  and  judged  that  the 
daily  grind  of  theme-correction  was  going  on  in  spite 
of  everything. 

"Did  you  meet  my  aunt  before  she  got  away?"  he 
asked. 

"We  did,"  said  Medora,  "and  we  are  going  to  add 
our  advice  to  hers." 

"That's  very  nice  of  you,"  he  rejoined,  flattered. 
"But  within  a  couple  of  months,"  he  went  on,  with 
a  lowered  voice  and  an  eye  on  the  parlor  door,  "I 
shall  be  living  in  a  different  place  and  in  quite  a 


14-6  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

different  way.  Until  then  .  .  ."  He  shrugged. 
His  shrug  was  meant  to  include  the  scanty,  unpretend 
ing  furnishings  of  the  room,  and  also  the  rough  casual 
fare  provided  by  many  houses  of  entertainment  out 
of  present  sight. 

"I  almost  feel  like  taking  you  in  myself,"  declared 
Medora  boldly. 

"That's  still  nicer  of  you,"  he  said  very  promptly 
and  with  a  reinforcement  of  his  smile.  "But  I'm  on 
the  up-grade,  and  pretty  soon  everything  will  come 
out  as  smooth  as  silk.  I  shall  have  ten  days  at  home, 
for  the  holidays;  then,  after  that,  the  new  dispensa 
tion." 

Amy  Leffingwell  tempered  her  look  of  general  com 
miseration  with  a  slight  lapse  into  relief.  There  was 
no  compelling  reason  why  she  should  have  commiser 
ated  ;  perhaps  it  all  came  from  a  desire  to  indulge 
in  an  abandonment  to  gentleness  and  pity. 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Cope,  with  a  sort  of  embar 
rassed  laugh,  "I  feel  as  if  I  were  letting  myself  be 
come  the  focus  of  interest.  Oughtn't  I  to  do  some 
thing  to  make  the  talk  less  personal?" 

He  glanced  about  the  meagre  little  room.  It  gave 
no  cue. 

"I'm  sure  Amy  and  I  are  satisfied  with  the  present 
subject,"  returned  Medora. 

But  Cope  rose,  and  gathered  his  bathrobe — or  dress 
ing-gown — about  him.  "Wait  a  moment.  I  have 
some  photographs  I  can  show  you — several  of  them 
came  only  yesterday.  I'll  bring  them  down." 

As  soon  as  he  had  disappeared  into  the  hall,  Mrs. 


COPE  ENTERTAINS  SEVERAL  LADIES    147 

Phillips  gave  a  slight  smile  and  said  quickly: 

"For  heaven's  sake,  Amy,  don't  look  so  concerned, 
and  mournful,  and  sympathetic!  Anybody  might 
think  that,  instead  of  your  being  my  chaperon,  I  was 
yours !" 

"He  doesn't  look  at  all  well,"  said  Amy  defensively. 

"He  might  look  better ;  but  we  can't  pity  a  young 
man  too  openly.  Pity  is  akin  to  embarrassment,  for 
the  pitied." 

Cope  came  down  stairs  the  second  time  at  a  lesser 
pace.  He  carried  a  sheaf  of  photographs.  Some  were 
large  and  were  regularly  mounted;  others  were  but 
the  informal  products  of  snapshottery. 

He  drew  up  his  chair  nearer  to  theirs'  and  began  to 
spread  his  pictures  over  the  gray  and  brown  pattern 
on  his  lap. 

"You  know  I  was  teaching,  last  year,  at  Winne- 
bago,"  he  said.  "Here  are  some  pictures  of  the 
place.  Science  Hall,"  he  began,  passing  them.  "Those 
fellows  on  the  front  steps  must  be  a  graduating 
class. 

"The  Cathedral,"  he  continued.  "And  I  think  that, 
somewhere  or  other,  I  have  a  group-picture  of  the 
choir. 

"Sisterhood  house,"  he  went  on.  "Two  or  three  of 
them  standing  out  in  front." 

"Sisterhood?"  asked  Mrs.  Phillips,  with  interest. 
"What  do  they  do?" 

Cope  paused.  "What  do  they  do,  indeed?  Well, 
for  one  thing,  they  decorate  the  altar — Easter,  Har 
vest  home,  and  so  on." 


148  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

"That  isn't  much.     That  doesn't  take  a  house." 

"Well,  I  suppose  they  visit,  and  teach.  Sort  of 
neighborhood  centre.  Headquarters.  Most  of  them, 
I  believe,  live  at  home." 

"Dear  me!  Is  Winnebago  large  enough  to  require 
settlement-work  ?" 

"Don't  drive  me  so!  I  supppose  they  want  to 
tone  in  with  the  cathedral  as  a  special  institution.  'At 
mosphere,'  you  know.  Some  tracts  of  our  great  land 
are  rather  drab  and  vacant,  remember.  Color,  stir, 
— and  distinction,  you  understand." 

"Is  Winnebago  ritualistic?" 

"Not  very.  While  I  was  there  a  young  'priest,'  an 
offshoot  from  the  cathedral,  started  up  a  new  parish 
in  one  of  the  industrial  outskirts.  He  was  quite  ear 
nest  and  eloquent  and  put  up  a  fine  service ;  but  nobody 
except  his  own  father  and  mother  went  to  hear  him 
preach." 

Mrs.  Phillips  returned  to  the  Sisterhood  house. 

"Are  they  nice  girls?"  she  asked  acutely. 

"Oh,  I  guess  so.  I  met  two  or  three  of  them.  Nice 
girls,  yes;  just  trying  to  be  a  little  different.  Here's 
the  boat-house,  and  some  of  the  fellows  in  their  row 
ing-clothes.  Some  sail-boats  too." 

"Can  you  sail  ?"  asked  Amy.  She  had  the  cathedral- 
choir  in  one  hand  and  now  took  the  boat-club  in  the 
other.  She  studied  both  pictures  intently,  for  both 
were  small  and  crowded. 

"Why,  I  have  all  the  theory  and  some  of  the  prac 
tice.  Those  small  inland  lakes  are  tricky,  though." 

"Probably  no  worse  than  ours,"  said  Mrs.  Phillips. 


COPE  ENTERTAINS  SEVERAL  LADIES    149 

"Do  help  poor  Amy,"  she  went  on.  "Are  you  in 
either  of  these  groups?" 

"No.  Didn't  I  tell  you  I  was  trying  to  get  away 
from  the  personal?  I'm  not  in  any  of  these  pictures." 
Amy  unconsciously  let  both  half-drop,  as  if  they  held 
no  particular  interest,  after  all.  And  the  hand  into 
which  the  next  photograph  was  put  gave  it  but  luke 
warm  welcome. 

Mixed  in  with  these  general  subjects  were  several 
of  a  more  personal  nature :  groups  of  twos  and  threes, 
and  a  number  of  single  figures.  One  face  and  figure, 
as  Mrs.  Phillips  presently  came  to  notice,  occurred 
again  and  again,  in  various  attitudes  and  costumes. 
It  was  a  young  man  of  Cope's  own  age — or  perhaps 
two  or  three  years  older.  He  was  of  Cope's  own 
height,  but  slightly  heavier,  with  a  possible  tendency 
to  plumpness.  The  best  of  the  photographs  made 
him  dark,  writh  black,  wavy  hair;  and  in  some  cases 
(where  sunlight  did  not  distort  his  expression)  he  in 
dulged  a  determined  sort  of  smile.  He  figured  once, 
all  by  himself,  in  choir  vestments ;  again,  all  by  himself, 
in  rowing  toggery;  a  third  time,  still  by  himself,  in  a 
costume  whose  vague  inaccuracy  suggested  a  character 
in  amateur  theatricals. 

"Who  is  this?"  inquired  Mrs.  Phillips,  with  the 
last  of  these  in  hand. 

Cope  was  prompt,  but  vague. 

"Oh,  that's  a  chum  of  mine,  up  there.  He  belongs 
to  a  dramatic  club.  They  give  'The  School  for  Scan 
dal'  and  'Caste,'  and — well,  more  modern  things.  They 
have  to  wear  all  sorts  of  togs." 


150  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

"And  here  he  is  again?  And  here?  And  here?" — 
shuffling  still  another  picture  into  view. 

"Yes." 

"He's  fond  of  costume,  isn't  he?" 

"Very  versatile,"  returned  Cope,  lightly  and  briefly. 
"Clothes  to  correspond." 

Mrs.  Phillips  began  to  peer  again  at  the  picture  of 
the  choir-group.  "Isn't  he  here  too?" 

"Yes.  With  the  first  tenors.  There  you  have  him, 
—third  from  the  left,  just  behind  that  row  of  little 
devils  in  surplices." 

"You  and  he  sing  together?" 

"Sometimes — when  we  are  together." 

"  'Larboard  Watch'  and  'Suona  la  Tromba'  and 
?" 

"Oh,  heavens !"  said  Cope.  He  threw  up  his  head 
quite  spiritedly.  There  was  now  more  color  in  his 
cheeks,  more  sparkle  in  his  eyes,  more  vibration  in 
his  voice.  Amy  looked  at  him  with  a  vanishing  pity 
and  a  growing  admiration. 

"Let  us  fellows  be  of  our  own  day  and  generation," 
he  added. 

"Willingly,"  said  Mrs.  Phillips.  "But  my  husband 
was  fond  of  'Larboard  Watch';  I  heard  him  sing  in 
it  before  we  were  married.  Shall  I  ever  hear  you  sing 
together?"  she  asked. 

"Possibly.  He  is  coming  down  here  early  in  Janu 
ary.  To  look  after  me." 

"After  you?"  Mrs.  Phillips  reviewed  the  photo 
graphs  once  more.  "I  imagine  you  may  sometimes 
have  to  look  after  him." 


COPE  ENTERTAINS  SEVERAL  LADIES    151 

Cope  sobered  a  little.  "Sometimes,"  he  acknowl 
edged.  "We  shall  look  after  each  other,"  he  amended. 
"We  are  going  to  live  together." 

"Oh,  then,  he  is  coming  to  stay?  You've  been  a 
long  time  in  reaching  the  point.  And  why  do  you  say 
'possibly'  when  I  ask  about  your  singing  together? 
Aren't  you  coming  to  my  house  'together'?" 

"I  withdraw  the  'possibly.'    Probably." 

"And  now  withdraw  the  'probably.'  Make  it  'cer 
tainly.'  " 

"Certainly." 

"  'Certainly,'— of  course." 

"That's  better,"  murmured  her  companion. 

Then  Mrs.  Phillips  must  know  the  newcomer's  name, 
and  must  have  an  outline  of  the  proposed  plan.  And 
Amy  Leffingwell  began  to  look  with  renewed  interest 
on  the  counterfeit  form  and  features  of  the  young 
man  who  enjoyed  Bertram  Cope's  friendly  regard. 
And  so  the  moments  of  "entertainment" — Cope's  in 
turn — went  on. 

"I'm  glad  he  really  appears  to  like  somebody,'1  de 
clared  Mrs.  Phillips,  on  the  way  home;  "it  makes  him 
seem  quite  human."  Inwardly,  she  was  resolving  to 
have  both  the  young  men  to  dine  at  the  earliest  possible 
date.  It  was  not  always  practicable  to  invite  a  single 
young  man  as  often  as  you  wished.  Having  two  to 
ask  simplified  the  problem  considerably. 

Cope,  flushed  and  now  rather  tired,  walked  up  stairs 
with  his  photographs,  took  a  perfunctory  sip  from 
a  medicine-glass,  looked  at  the  inkstain  on  his  finger, 
and  sat  down  at  his  table.  Two  or  three  sheets  of  a 


152  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

letter  were  lying  on  it,  and  he  re-read  a  paragraph  or 
so  before  dipping  his  pen. 

"You  were  rather  exacting  about  that  week-end  ex 
cursion.  Mr.  R.  was  all  right,  and  a  few  days  of  new 
air  and  new  scenes  would  have  done  me  a  lot  of  good. 
Still,  I  acknowledge  your  first  claim.  But  remember 
that  I  gave  up  Indian  Rock  for  you,  even  if  you  didn't 
give  up  Green  Bay  for  me.  I  hope  the  fellow  who 
took  you  hasn't  got  anything  further  to  propose.  If 
he  has,  I  ask  for  a  tip  in  turn. 

"Naturally  it  wasn't  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world 
to  explain  to  him,  and  I  haven't  seen  him  since.  But 
I  can  truly  say  that  a  relative  did  come,  and  that  she 
was  needed — or  thought  she  was." 

He  picked  up  his  pen  for  a  fresh  paragraph. 

"The  new  photos — added  to  those  I  had — have  come 
in  quite  nicely.  They  have  just  helped  me  entertain  a 
couple  of  callers.  Women  have  abounded  in  these 
parts  to-day :  Mrs.  Peck,  scurrying  about  more  than 
usual ;  an  aunt  from  home,  getting  away  with  her  bag 
gage — more  than  she  needed  to  bring;  and  then  the 
two  who  have  just  gone.  It  all  makes  me  feel  like 
wanting  to  take  part  in  a  track-meet  or  a  ball-game — 
though,  as  I  am  now,  I  might  not  last  two  minutes  at 
either.  The  lady  who  called  was  Mrs.  Phillips.  I 
thought  she  might  as  well  know  that  you  were  coming. 
Of  course  you  are  already  invited,  good  and  plenty, 
to  her  house.  Look  in  old  music-books  and  see  if  you 
can't  find  'Larboard  Watch.'  If  it  turns  out  you  can 
get  away  before  the  holidays,  come  down  and  go  out 
with  me  to  Freeford  for  Christmas.  I  have  had  some 


COPE  ENTERTAINS  SEVERAL  LADIES    158 

rather  glum  hours  and  miss  you  more  than  ever.  I 
have  been  within  arm's  length  of  one  of  the  University 
trustees  (who  can  probably  place  me  now!) — but  I 
don't  know  just  how  much  that  can  be  counted  upon 
for,  if  for  anything.  Show  yourself, — that  will  help. 

"B." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

COPE  GOES  A-SAILING 

COPE  was  himself  in  a  few  days.  He  set  aside  his 
aunt's  counsel  in  regard  to  a  better  regimen,  as  well 
as  her  more  specific  hints,  made  in  view  of  the  near 
approach  of  rough  weather,  that  he  provide  himself 
with  rubbers  and  an  umbrella,  even  if  he  would  not 
hear  of  a  rain-coat.  "Am  I  made  of  money?"  he 
asked.  He  gave  a  like  treatment  to  some  intimations 
contributed  by  Medora  Phillips  during  her  call:  he 
met  them  with  the  smiling,  polite,  half-weary  patience 
which  a  man  sometimes  employs  to  inform  a  woman 
that  she  doesn't  quite  know  what  she  is  talking  about. 
He  was  presently  in  as  active  circulation,  on  the  cam 
pus  and  elsewhere,  as  ever.  The  few  who  looked  after 
him  at  all  came  to  the  view  that  he  possessed  more 
mettle  than  stamina.  He  had  no  special  fondness  for 
athletics ;  he  was  doing  little  to  keep — still  less  to  in 
crease — a  young  man's  natural  endowment  of  strength 
and  vigor.  Occasional  tennis  on  the  faculty  courts, 
and  not  much  else. 

So  the  vast  gymnasium  went  for  little  with  him,  and 
the  wide  football  field  for  less,  and  the  great  lake,  close 
by,  for  nothing.  This  last,  however,  counted  for  little 
more  with  any  one  else.  Those  who  knew  the  lake  best 
were  best  content  to  leave  it  alone.  As  a  source  of 

154 


COPE  GOES  A-SAILING  155 

pleasure  it  had  too  many  perils:  "treacherous"  was 
the  common  word.  Its  treachery  was  reserved,  of 
course,  for  the  smiling  period  of  summer;  especially 
did  the  great  monster  lie  in  wait  on  summer's  Sunday 
afternoons.  Then  the  sun  would  shine  on  its  vast 
placid  bosom  and  the  breeze  play  gently,  tempting  the 
swimmer  toward  its  borders  and  the  light  pleasure 
craft  toward  its  depths.  And  then,  in  mid-afternoon, 
a  sudden  disastrous  change;  a  quick  gale  from  the 
north,  with  a  wide  whipping-up  of  white  caps ;  and 
the  morrow's  newspapers  told  of  bathers  drowned  in 
the  undertow,  of  frail  canoes  dashed  to  pieces  against 
piers  and  breakwaters,  and  of  gay,  beflagged  steam- 
launches  swamped  by  the  newly-risen  sea  miles  from 
shore:  the  toll  of  fickle,  superheated  August.  But  in 
the  late  autumn  the  immense,  savage  creature  was 
more  frankly  itself:  rude,  blustery,  tyrannical, — no 
more  a  smiling,  cruel  hypocrite.  It  warned  you,  often 
and  openly,  if  warning  you  would  take. 

It  was  on  the  last  Sunday  afternoon  in  October  that 
Cope  and  Amy  Leffingwell  were  strolling  along  its' 
edge.  They  had  met  casually,  in  front  of  the  chapel, 
after  a  lecture — or  a  service — by  an  eminent  ethical 
teacher  from  abroad, — a  bird  of  passage  who  must 
pipe  on  this  Sunday  afternoon  if  he  were  to  pipe  at 
all.  Cope,  who  had  lain  abed  late,  made  this  address 
a  substitute  for  the  forenoon  service  he  had  missed. 
And  Amy  Leffingwell  had  gone  out  somewhat  for  the 
sake,  perhaps,  of  walking  by  the  house  where  Cope 
lived. 

They  passed  the  Science  building,  with   its  tower 


156  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

crowned  by  an  ornamental  open-work  iron  pyramid 
for  wireless,  and  the  segregated  group  of  theological 
dormitories  through  whose  windows  earnest  ringing 
young  voices  were  sometimes  heard  at  the  practice  of 
sermon-delivery,  and  the  men's  club  where  the  billiard 
tables  were  doubtless  decorously  covered  with  their 
customary  Sunday  sheets  of  black  oilcloth,  and  took 
intuitively  the  path  which  led  along  the  edge  of  the 
bluff.  Beyond  them,  further  bluffs  and  a  few  low 
headlands ;  here  a  lighthouse,  there  a  water-tower ;  else 
where  (and  not  so  far)  the  balconied  roof  of  the  life- 
saving  station,  where  the  boats,  light  and  heavy,  were 
manned  by  muscular  students :  their  vigilance  and  ac 
tivity,  interspersed  with  long  periods  of  leisure  or  of 
absence,  helped  them  to  "pay  their  way."  Out  toward 
the  horizon  a  passenger  steamer  en  route  to  some  port 
farther  north,  or  a  long  ore-freighter,  singularly  un 
eventful  between  bow  and  far-distant  afterhouse,  on 
its  way  down  from  the  iron-ranges  of  Superior. 

The  path  was  narrow,  but  Cope,  unexpectedly  to 
himself,  had  no  complaint  to  make.  Really,  the  girl 
did  better  here,  somehow,  than  lots  of  other  girls 
would  have  done  on  a  wide  sidewalk.  Most  of  them 
walked  too  close  to  you,  or  too  far  from  you,  altering 
the  interval  suddenly  and  arbitrarily,  and  tending  to 
bump  against  you  when  you  didn't  expect  it  and  didn't 
want  it.  They  were  uncertain  at  crossings ;  if  it  was 
necessary  for  them  to  take  your  arm,  as  it  sometimes 
became,  in  the  evening,  on  a  crowded  street,  why,  they 
were  too  gingerly  or  else  pressed  too  close;  and  if 
it  happened  to  rain,  you  sometimes  had  to  take  a  cab, 


COPE  GOES  A-SAILING  157 

trafficking  with  a  driver  whose  tariff  and  whose  dis 
position  you  did  not  know :  in  fact,  a  string  of  minor 
embarrassments  and  expenses  .  .  . 

But  the  way,  this  afternoon,  was  clear  and  easy; 
and  there  were  no  annoyances  save  from  other  walkers 
along  the  same  path.  The  sun  shone  brightly  at  in 
tervals.  A  fresh  breeze  swept  the  wide  expanse 
streaked  with  purple  and  green  and  turned  an  occa 
sional  broken  wave-crest  toward  the  western  light. 
Some  large  cumuli  were  aboard — white,  or  less  white, 
or  even  darkling, — the  first  windy  sky  of  autumn. 

Cope  and  Amy  passed  the  life-saving  station,  where 
a  few  people  sat  about  idly  and  where  one  or  two 
visitors  pressed  noses  against  glass  panes  to  view  the 
boats  within;  and  they  reached  presently  a  sort  of 
little  public  park  which  lay  along  the  water.  Here  a 
small  pier  ran  out  past  the  shallows,  and  in  front  pf 
a  shack  close  by  it  a  man  sat  resignedly  near  a  group 
of  beached  and  upturned  row-boats.  One  or  two  others 
were  still  in  the  water,  as  was  a  small  sloop.  The  fel 
low  sat  there  without  expectations:  the  season  was 
about  over;  the  day  was  none  too  promising  for  such 
as  knew.  His  attitude  expressed,  in  fact,  the  accumu 
lated  disappointment  and  resignation  of  many 
months.  Perhaps  he  was  a  new-comer  from  the  in 
terior — some  region  of  ponds  and  rivers — and  had 
kept  through  an  uneventful  summer  the  notion  that  so 
big  a  spread  of  water  would  surely  be  put  to  use.  The 
sail  of  the  sloop,  half-lowered,  flapped  in  the  breeze, 
and  little  else  stirred. 

Our  young  people  overlooked  both  man  and  boat. 


158  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

"It's  the  same  lake,"  said  Amy  Leffingwell,  rather 
dreamily,  after  a  common  silence  of  several  minutes. 

"The  same,"  returned  Cope  promptly.  "It's  just 
what  it  was  a  year  ago,  a  century  ago ;  and  a  millen 
nium  ago,  I  suppose, — if  there  was  anyone  here  to 
notice." 

She  turned  on  him  a  rueful,  half-protesting  smile. 
"I  wasn't  thinking  of  a  century  ago.  I  was  thinking 
of  a  month  ago." 

"A  month  ago?" 

"Yes ;  when  we  were  walking  along  the  dunes." 

"Oh,  I  see.  Why,  yes,  it  is  the  same  old  lake,  though 
it  seems  hard  to  realize  it.  Foreground  makes  so 
much  difference;  and  so  does — well,  population.  I 
mean  the  human  element,  or  the  absence  of  it." 

Amy  pondered. 

"The  one  drawback,  there,  was  that  we  couldn't  go 
out  on  the  water." 

"Go  out?  I  should  say  not.  No  pier  for  miles,  and 
the  water  so  shallow  that  hardly  more  than  a  canoe 
could  land.  Still,  those  fishermen  out  there  manage  it. 
But  plain  summerites,  especially  if  not  dressed  for  it, 
would  have  an  unpleasant  time  imitating  them." 

Amy  cast  her  eye  about.  Here  was  a  shore,  a  pier, 
a  boat,  a  man  to  let  it  ... 

"Would  you  like  to  go  out  ?"  asked  the  man  himself 
perfunctorily,  as  from  the  depths  of  a  settled  despair. 
He  pointed  a  thumb  over  his  shoulder  toward  the 
•loop. 

The  two  young  people  looked  at  each  other.  Neither 
looked  at  the  sky.  "Well,  I  don't  know,"  replied 


COPE  GOES  A-SAILING  159 

Cope  slowly.  The  sloop  was  on  a  pretty  small  scale ; 
still,  it  was  more  to  manage  than  a  cat-boat. 

"You  have  the  theory,  you  know,"  said  Amy  de 
murely,  "and  some  practice." 

Cope  looked  at  her  in  doubt.  "Can  you  swim?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes,"  she  returned.  "I  have  some  practice,  if  not 
much  theory." 

"Could  you  handle  a  jib?" 

"Under  direction." 

"Well,  then,  if  you  really  wish     .     .     ." 

The  misanthrope,  with  a  twisted  smile,  helped  them 
get  away.  The  mainsail  took  a  steady  set;  but  the 
jib,  from  the  first,  possessed  an  active  life  of  its  own. 

"Not  that  rope,"  cried  Cope ;  "the  other." 

"Very  well,"  returned  Amy,  scrambling  across  the 
cockpit.  And  so  it  went. 

In  six  or  eight  minutes  their  small  catastrophe  over 
took  them.  There  came  a  sudden  flaw  from  out  one 
of  the  racing  gray  cumuli,  and  a  faint  cry  or  two  from 
the  distant  shore.  Theory  had  not  put  itself  into 
practice  as  quickly  as  the  emergency  required, — all 
the  less  so  in  that  it  had  to  work  through  a  crew 
encumbered  with  a  longish  skirt  and  a  close  jacket. 
The  sloop  keeled  over;  Cope  was  instantly  entangled 
with  the  mainsail  and  some  miscellaneous  cordage ;  and 
Amy,  with  the  water  soaking  her  closely-fitting  gar 
ments,  found  herself  clutching  the  cockpit's  edge. 

She  saw  Cope's  predicament  and  let  go  her  hold 
to  set  him  free.  He  helped  shake  himself  loose  with 
a  loud  forced  laugh  and  a  toss  of  the  head  to  get  his 


160  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

long  hair  out  of  his  eyes.  "We'll  leave  the  wreck," 
he  spluttered,  "and  make  for  the  shore."  The  shore, 
fortunately,  was  scarcely  more  than  a  hundred  yards 
away, — yet  never  had  the  great  twin  towers  of  the 
library  seemed  so  distant  or  the  wireless  cage  on 
Science  hall  so  futile. 

They  swam,  easily,  side  by  side,  he  supporting  her 
in  her  cramped  clothes  at  the  start,  and  she,  a  bit 
concerned,  somewhat  supporting  him  toward  the  end. 
Meanwhile,  there  was  some  stir  at  the  life-saving  sta 
tion,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  down  the  shore. 

The  last  hundred  feet  meant  mere  wading,  though 
there  was  some  variability  among  the  sand  ridges  of 
the  bottom ;  but  the  water,  at  its  deepest,  never  reached 
their  shoulders.  Their  small  accident  now  began  to 
take  on  the  character  of  a  ceremonial — an  immersion 
incident  to  some  religious  rite  or  observance ;  and  the 
little  Sunday  crowd  collecting  on  the  water's  edge 
might  have  been  members  of  some  congregation  sym 
pathetically  welcoming  a  pair  of  converts  to  the 
faith. 

"Let's  hold  our  heads  high  and  walk  straight," 
said  Cope,  his  arm  in  hers;  "heaven  knows  whom  we 
are  likely  to  meet.  And  throw  your  hat  away — you'll 
look  better  without  it.  Lord  knows  where  mine  is," 
he  added,  as  he  ran  a  smoothing  hand  over  his  long 
locks. 

"Very  well,"  she  said,  casting  away  her  ruined, 
ridiculous  headgear  with  her  free  arm.  The  other,  in 
his,  was  giving  more  support  to  him,  she  felt,  than 
he  was  giving  to  her. 


COPE  GOES  A-SAILING  161 

Just  as  they  were  about  to  reach  dry  land,  amidst 
the  congratulations  and  the  amused  smiles  of  the  little 
group  at  the  foot  of  the  bluff,  the  belated  crew  of 
life-savers  swept  up  in  their  smallest  boat  and  insisted 
on  capturing  them. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Cope,"  said  a  familiar  voice,  "please  let 
us  save  you.  We  haven't  saved  a  soul  for  months." 

Cope  recognized  one  of  his  own  students  and  sur 
rendered,  though  a  kindly  house-owner  on  the  bluff  had 
been  quick  to  cry  across  the  intervening  yards  of 
water  his  offer  of  hospitality.  "All  right,"  he  said; 
"take  us  back  to  your  place,  where  we  can  dry  and 
telephone."  He  hoped,  too,  that  the.y  might  have  to 
encounter  fewer  people  at  the  other  spot  than  at  this. 

Meanwhile,  another  boat  belonging  to  the  station 
had  set  out  to  aid  the  owner  of  the  sloop  in  its  re 
covery.  It  was  soon  righted  and  was  brought  in. 
There  was  no  damage  done,  and  there  was  no  charge 
that  Cope  could  not  meet,  as  he  learned  next  day  to  his 
great  relief. 

The  station  gave  him  a  dry  outfit  of  clothes,  as 
sembled  from  here  and  there,  and  telephoned  to  Mrs. 
Phillips  to  bring  fresh  garments  for  Amy.  Neither 
had  time  to  get  a  chill.  A  pair  of  kindly  servant- 
maids,  who  were  loitering  on  the  shore  with  their  young 
men,  insisted  on  carrying  the  heroine  of  the  afternoon 
into  retirement,  where  they  expeditiously  undressed 
her,  rubbed  her,  and  wrapped  her  in  a  quilt  snatched 
from  a  life-saving  bed.  Amy  was  cold  indeed,  and 
inclined  to  shiver.  She  understood,  now,  why  Cope 
had  not  encouraged  that  bathing  party  at  the  dunes. 


162  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

In  a  few  minutes  Medora  Phillips  tore  up  in  her 
car,  with  Helga  and  a  mountain  of  clothing  and  wraps. 
She  was  inclined  to  make  the  most  of  the  occasion, 
and  she  did  so.  With  Helga  she  quickly  superseded 
the  pair  of  sympathetic  and  ready  maids,  whom  she 
allowed  to  fade  into  the  background  with  too  scant 
recognition  of  their  services ;  and  when  she  had  got 
Amy  thoroughly  warmed  and  rehabilitated  she  turned 
her  thought  toward  Cope.  Here,  certainly,  was  a 
young  scholastic  recluse  who  had  an  admirable  fac 
ulty  for  getting  into  the  public  eye.  If  one  section 
of  Churchton  society  had  talked  about  his  perform 
ance  at  her  dinner,  all  sections  of  it  would  now  be  dis 
cussing  his  new  performance  on  the  high  seas.  Sud 
denly  she  was  struck  with  the  notion  that  possibly  his 
first  lapse  had  not  left  him  in  condition  to  stand  this 
second  one. 

"How  are  you  feeling?"  she  asked  anxiously.  "No 
chill?  No  shock?" 

"I'm  all  right,"  he  declared.  "One  of  the  boys  has 
just  given  me  a  drink  of — of—  But  it  was  a  bev 

erage  the  use  of  which  was  not  generally  approved 
in  Churchton. 

Mrs.  Phillips  turned  round  suddenly.  "Amy,  did 
you  have  a  drink,  too,  of — of — of — if  'Of  is  what 
you  call  it?" 

"I  did,"  said  Amy  firmly;  "and  I  feel  the  better 
for  it." 

"Well,  get  in,  then,  and  I'll  take  you  home." 

Peter  grinned  from  the  front  seat  of  the  car ;  Mrs. 
Phillips  placed  herself  between  the  two  victims  on  the 


COPE  GOES  A-SAILING  169 

back  one ;  the  life-savers,  who  had  kept  the  discarded 
garments  to  dry,  gave  them  all  a  few  smiles  and  hand 
wavings ;  the  two  young  women  and  their  two  young 
men  looked  on  with  some  deference ;  the  general  crowd 
gave  a  little  mock-cheer  before  turning  its  Sunday 
leisure  to  other  forms  of  interest ;  and  the  small  party 
whirled  away. 

Amy  leaned  a  tired,  moist  head,  but  a  happy  one, 
on  Mrs.  Phillips'  shoulder.  "He  was  so  quick,"  she 
breathed,  "and  so  brave,  and  so  strong."  She  pro 
fessed  to  believe  that  he  had  saved  her  life.  Cope,  si 
lent  as  he  looked  straight  ahead  between  Peter  and 
Helga,  was  almost  afraid  that  she  had  saved  his. 


CHAPTER    XVII 

COPE  AMONG  CROSS-CURRENTS 

NEXT  morning,  at  breakfast,  Amy  Leffingwell  kept, 
for  the  most  part,  a  rapt  and  meditative  eye  on  her 
plate.  Hortense  gave  her  now  and  then  an  impatient, 
half-angry  glare,  and  had  to  be  cut  short  in  some 
stinging  observations  on  Cope.  "But  it  was  foolish," 
Medora  Phillips  felt  obliged  to  concede.  "What  in 
the  world  made  you  do  it?" 

But  Amy  continued  to  smile  at  the  table-cloth.  She 
seemed  to  be  intimating  that  there  was  a  special  folly 
which  transcended  mere  general  folly  and  approxi 
mated  wisdom. 

After  breakfast  she  spoke  a  few  words  to  Carolyn. 
She  had  had  all  night  to  think  the  matter  over;  she 
now  saw  it  from  a  new  angle  and  in  a  new  light. 

"You  should  have  seen  how  he  shook  himself  free 
from  that  sail,  and  all,"  she  said.  "And  while  we 
were  swimming  in  he  held  his  hand  under  my  chin — 
at  least  part  of  the  time.  And  when  we  reached  the 
sandbars  he  put  his  arm  through  mine  and  helped 
me  over  every  one."  And  in  this  state  of  mind  she 
went  off  to  her  class. 

Cope  was  received  by  his  own  class  with  a  sub 
dued  hilarity.  His  young  people  felt  that  he  had 
shown  poor  judgment  in  going  out  on  the  water  at 

164 


COPE  AMONG  CROSS-CURRENTS          165 

all, — for  the  University,  by  tacit  consent,  left  the 
lake  pretty  well  alone.  They  thought  that,  once  out, 
he  had  shown  remarkably  inept  seamanship.  And 
they  thought  that  he  had  chosen  a  too  near  and  too 
well-lighted  stage  for  the  exhibition  of  both.  This 
forenoon  the  "Eighteenth  Century  Novelists"  involved 
Smollett,  and  with  every  reference  to  the  water  looks 
of  understanding  traveled  from  student  to  student: 
that  the  class  was  of  both  sexes  made  the  situation  no 
better.  Cope  was  in  good  enough  physical  condition, 
—the  unspeakable  draught  from  the  unspeakable  flask 
had  ensured  that, — but  he  felt  what  was  in  the  air 
of  the  classroom  and  was  correspondingly  ill  at  ease. 
He  had  had,  for  several  days,  an  understanding  with 
Basil  Randolph  that  they  were  to  go  together  to  the 
next  weekly  reception  of  the  president's  wife.  Ran 
dolph  wished  to  push  Cope's  fortunes  wherever  he 
might,  and  to  make  him  stand  out  from  the  general 
ranks  of  the  young  instructors.  He  had  the  entree 
to  the  Thursdays  at  the  president's  house,  and  he 
wanted  Cope  to  meet  personally  and  intimately,  under 
the  guidance  he  could  provide,  a  few  of  the  academic 
dignitaries  and  some  of  the  wealthier  and  more  promi 
nent  townspeople.  Notwithstanding  Mrs.  Phillips' 
confident  impression,  Cope's  exploit  at  her  own  table 
had  gained  no  wide  currency.  The  people  she  had  en 
tertained  were  people  who  expected  and  commanded 
a  succession  of  daily  impressions  from  one  quarter  or 
another.  With  them,  a  few  light  words  on  Cope's 
achievement  were  sufficient;  they  walked  straight  on 
toward  the  sensation  the  next  day  was  sure  to  bring. 


166  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

But  of  course  the  whole  University  knew  about  his 
second  performance.  Some  of  its  members  had  wit 
nessed  it,  and  all  of  them  had  read  about  it,  next  day, 
in  Churchton's  four-page  "Index." 

The  president's  wife  was  a  sprightly  lady,  who  be 
lieved  in  keeping  up  the  social  end  of  things.  Her 
Thursdays  offered  coffee  and  chocolate  at  a  hand 
somely  appointed  table,  and  a  little  dancing,  now  and 
then,  for  the  livelier  of  the  young  professors  and  the 
daughters  of  the  town's  best-known  families;  above 
all,  she  insisted  on  "receiving" — even  on  having  a 
"receiving  line."  She  would  summon,  for  example, 
the  wife  of  one  of  the  most  eminent  members  of  the 
faculty  and  the  obliging  spouse  of  some  educationally- 
minded  banker  or  manufacturer;  and  she  herself 
always  stood,  of  course,  at  the  head  of  her  line.  When 
Cope  came  along  with  Randolph,  she  intercepted  the 
flow  of  material  for  her  several  assistants  farther  on, 
and  carried  congestion  and  impatience  into  the  wait 
ing  queue  behind  by  detaining  him  and  "having  it 
out." 

She  caught  his  hand  with  a  good,  firm,  nervous 
grasp,  and  flashed  on  him  a  broad,  meaningful  smile. 

"Which  saved  which?"  she  asked  heartily. 

Mrs.  Ryder,  who  was  farther  along  in  the  line,  but 
not  too  far,  beamed  delightedly,  yet  without  the 
slightest  trace  of  malice.  An  eminent  visiting  edu 
cator,  five  or  six  steps  behind  our  hero,  frowned  in 
question  and  had  to  have  the  situation  explained  by 
the  lady  in  his  company. 

Cope,    a    trifle   embarrassed,    and   half-inclined    to 


COPE  AMONG  CROSS-CURRENTS          167 

wish  he  had  not  come,  did  what  he  could  to  deprive 
the  episode  of  both  hero  and  heroine.  It  was  about 
an  even  thing,  he  guessed, — a  matter  of  cooperation. 

"Isn't  that  delightful!"  exclaimed  the  president's 
wife  to  the  wife  of  the  banker,  before  passing  Cope 
on.  "And  so  modern !  Equality  of  the  sexes 
Woman  doing  her  share,  et  cetera !  For  this,"  she 
presently  said  to  the  impatient  educator  from  out 
side,  "are  we  co-educational!"  And,  "Good  team 
work  !"  she  contrived  to  call  after  Cope,  who  was  now 
disappearing  in  the  crowd. 

Cope  lost  himself  from  Randolph,  and  presently 
got  away  without  seeing  who  was  pouring  coffee  or 
who  was  the  lightest  on  foot  among  the  younger  pro 
fessors.  The  president's  wife  had  asked  him,  besides, 
how  the  young  lady  had  got  through  it,  and  had  even 
inquired  after  her  present  condition.  Well,  Amy 
Leffingwell  was  enrolled  among  the  University  in 
structors,  and  doubtless  the  wife  of  the  institution's 
head  had  been  well  within  her  rights, — even  duly  mind 
ful  of  the  proprieties.  But  "The  Index"  !  That  sheet, 
staid  and  proper  enough  on  most  occasions,  had 
seemed,  on  this  one,  to  couple  their  names  quite  un 
warrantably.  "Couple !"  Cope  repeated  the  word, 
and  felt  an  injury.  If  he  had  known  that  Amy  had 
carefully  cut  out  and  preserved  the  offending  para 
graph,  his  thought  would  have  taken  on  a  new  and 
more  disquieting  tone. 

In  the  inquiry  of  the  president's  wife  about  the  con 
dition  of  his  copartner  in  adventure  he  found  a  sec 
ond  source  of  dissatisfaction.  He  had  not  called  up 


168  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

to  ask  after  Amy;  but  Mrs.  Phillips,  with  a  great 
show  of  solicitude,  had  called  up  early  on  Monday 
morning  to  ask  after  him.  He  had  then,  in  turn,  made 
a,  counter-inquiry,  of  course;  but  he  could  take  no 
credit  for  initiative.  Neither  had  he  yet  called  at 
the  house ;  nor  did  he  feel  greatly  prompted  to  do  so. 
That  must  doubtless  be  done ;  but  he  might  wait  until 
the  first  fresh  impact  of  the  event  should  somewhat 
have  lost  its  force. 

Mrs.  Phillips'  voice  had  kept,  over  the  telephone, 
all  its  vibratory  quality;  its  tones  expressed  the  most 
palpitating  interest.  It  was  already  clear — and  it 
became  even  clearer  when  he  finally  called  at  the  house 
— that  she  was  poetizing  him  into  a  hero,  and  that 
she  regarded  Amy  herself  as  but  a  means,  an  instru 
ment.  At  this,  Cope  felt  a  little  more  mortified  than 
before.  He  knew  that  he  had  done  poorly  in  the  boat, 
and  he  was  not  sure  that,  in  the  first  moment  of  the 
upset,  he  should  have  freed  himself  unaided;  and  he 
confessed  that  he  had  not  been  quite  in  condition  to 
do  very  well  on  the  way  landward.  However,  all 
passed.  .  .  .  Within  a  fortnight  or  less  the  inci 
dent  would  have  dropped  back  into  its  proper  per 
spective,  and  his  students  would  have  found  some 
other  matter  for  entertainment.  In  the  circumstances 
he  grasped  at  the  first  source  of  consolation  that  came. 
Randolph  was  now  installed  in  his  new  apartment  and 
felt  that,  though  not  fully  settled,  he  might  risk  ask 
ing  Cope  to  dinner.  "You  are  the  first,"  Randolph 
had  said.  Cope  could  not  escape  the  flattery;  it  was 
almost  comfort. 


COPE  AMONG  CROSS-CURRENTS          169 

His  prompt  acceptance  was  most  welcome  to  Ran 
dolph.  Cope  had  dwelt,  for  a  moment,  on  the  actual 
presence  of  Aunt  Harriet  and  on  his  need  of  her.  Ran 
dolph  had  made  no  precise  study  of  recent  chronology, 
taking  the  reason  given  over  the  wire  as  a  valid  one 
and  feeling  glad  that  there  was  no  hitch  this  time. 

Randolph  gave  Cope  a  rapid  view  of  the  apartment 
before  they  sat  down  to  dinner.  There  were  fewer 
pictures  on  the  newly-papered  walls  than  there  were 
to  be,  and  fewer  rugs  on  the  freshly-varnished  floors. 
"My  standing  lamp  will  be  in  that  corner,"  said  Ran 
dolph,  in  the  living-room,  u — when  it  comes."  He 
drew  attention  to  a  second  bedroom  where  a  man 
could  be  put  up  on  occasion:  "you,  for  example,  if 
you  ever  find  yourself  shut  out  late."  He  saw  Sir 
Galahad's  gauntlets  on  the  dresser.  He  even  gave 
Cope  a  glimpse  of  his  kitchen,  where  a  self-contained 
Oriental,  slightly  smiling  but  otherwise  inexpressive, 
seemed  to  be  dealing  competently  with  the  gas-range. 
But  Cope  was  impressed,  most  of  all,  by  the  dining- 
room  table  and  its  paraphernalia.  At  Mrs.  Phillips' 
he  had  accepted  the  china,  silver  and  napery  as  a 
matter  of  course — an  elaborate  entity  quite  outside 
his  own  thoughts  and  calculations :  it  was  all  so  im 
mensely  far  beyond  his  reach  and  his  needs.  Ran 
dolph,  however,  had  dealt  as  a  bachelor  with  a  prob 
lem  which  he  himself  as  a  bachelor  must  soon  take  up, 
on  however  different  a  scale  and  plane.  For  every 
thing  here  was  rich  and  handsome;  he  should  not 
know  how  to  select  such  things — still  less  how  to  pay 
for  them.  He  felt  dashed;  he  felt  depressed:  once 


170  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

more  the  wonder  of  people's  "having  things."  He 
sipped  his  soup  in  the  spirit  of  humility,  and  did  not 
quite  recover  with  the  chops. 

Randolph  made  little  talk;  he  was  glad  merely  to 
have  Cope  there.  He  indulged  no  slightest  reference 
to  the  accident;  he  assumed,  willingly  enough,  that 
Cope  had  done  well  in  a  sudden  emergency,  but  did 
not  care  to  dwell  on  his  judgment  at  the  beginning. 
Still,  a  young  man  was  properly  enough  experimental, 
venturesome  .  .  . 

Cope  had  recovered  himself  by  the  time  dessert  was 
reached.  He  accomplished  an  adjustment  to  his  en 
vironment,  and  Randolph  was  glad  to  feel  his  unaf 
fected  response  to  good  food  properly  cooked  and 
served.  "He  sha'n't  gipsy  all  the  time,"  Randolph 
said  to  himself.  "I  shall  try  to  have  him  here  at 
least  twice  a  week."  Once  in  a  while  the  evening 
might  be  stormy,  and  then  the  gauntlets  would  be  laid 
on  the  dresser — perhaps  after  an  informal  smoke  in 
pajamas  among  the  curios  ranged  round  the  small 
den. 

Cope  set  down  his  demi-tasse  with  a  slight  sigh. 
"Well,"  he  said,  "I  suppose  that,  before  long,  I  shall 
have  to  buy  a  few  sticks  of  furniture  myself  and  a 
trifle  of  'crockery.'  And  a  percolator." 

Randolph  looked  across  at  him  in  surprise. 

"You  are  moving,  then, — you  too?"  Not  to  greatly 
better  quarters,  he  almost  hoped. 

"Yes ;  and  we  shall  need  a  few  small  things  by  way 
of  outfit." 

"We."     Randolph  looked   more   intently.      House- 


COPE  AMONG  CROSS-CURRENTS          171 

keeping  a  deux?  A  roommate?  Matrimony?  Here 
was  the  intrusion  of  another  piece  on  the  board — a 
piece  new  and  unexpected.  Would  it  turn  out  to  be 
an  added  interest  for  himself,  or  a  plain  source  of 
disconcertment? 

Cope,  having  unconsciously  set  the  ball  rolling,  gave 
it  further  impetus.  He  sketched  his  absent  friend  and 
told  of  their  plans  for  the  winter  and  spring  terms. 
"I  shall  try  for  a  large  easy  chair,"  he  concluded, 
"unless  Arthur  can  be  induced  to  bring  one  with  him." 

Randolph,  by  this  time,  had  led  Cope  into  the  den, 
established  him  between  padded  arms,  and  given  him 
a  cigar.  He  drew  Cope's  attention  to  the  jades  and 
swordguards,  to  the  odd  assortment  of  primitive  mu 
sical  instruments  (which  would  doubtless,  in  time,  find 
a  place  at  the  Art  Museum  in  the  city),  and  to  his 
latest  acquisition — a  volume  of  Bembo's  "Le  Prose." 
It  had  reached  him  but  a  week  before  from  Venice, — 
"in  Venetia,  al  segno  del  Pozzo,  MDLVII,"  said  the  title- 
page,  in  fact.  It  was  bound  in  vellum,  pierced  by 
bookworms,  and  was  decorated,  in  quaint  seventeenth- 
century  penmanship,  with  marginal  annotations,  and 
also,  on  the  fly  leaves,  wth  repeated  honorifics  due  to 
a  study  of  the  forms  of  address  by  some  young  aspir 
ant  for  favor.  Randolph  had  rather  depended  on  it 
to  take  Cope's  interest ;  but  now  the  little  envoi  from 
the  Lagoons  seemed  lesser  in  its  lustre.  Cope  indeed 
took  the  volume  with  docility  and  looked  at  its  class 
ical  title-page  and  at  its  quaint  Biblical  colophon; 
but,  "Just  who  was  Tietro  Bembo'?"  he  asked;  and 
Randolph  realized,  with  a  slight  shock,  that  young  in- 


172  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

structors  teach  only  what  they  themselves  lately  have 
learned,  and  that,  in  many  cases,  they  have  not  learned 
much. 

But  in  truth  neither  paid  much  heed  to  the  tabulated 
vocables  of  the  Venetian  cardinal — nor  to  any  of  the 
other  rarities  near  by.  Basil  Randolph  was  won 
dering  how  he  was  to  take  Arthur  Lemoyne,  and  was 
asking  himself  if  his  trouble  in  setting  up  a  new  menage 
was  likely  to  go  for  nothing ;  and  Bertram  Cope,  while 
he  pursued  the  course  of  the  bookworm  through  the 
parchment  covers  and  the  yellowed  sheets  within,  was 
wondering  in  what  definite  way  his  host  might  aid  the 
fortunes  of  Arthur  Lemoyne  and  thus  make  matters  a 
little  easier  for  them  both.  "All9  illmo  Sig.r  paron 
ossevnd™0  .  .  .  All9  Ul.mo  et  ecc.mo  Sig.r  paron 
.  .  .  All9  ill.mo  et  R.R.d.mo  Sig.r,  Sig.r  Pio.  Fran 
cesco  Bembo,  Vesco  et  Conte  di  Belluno" — thus  ran 
the  faded  brown  lines  on  the  flyleaf,  in  their  solicitous 
currying  of  favor;  but  these  reiterated  forms  of  ad 
dress  conveyed  no  meaning  to  Cope,  and  offered  no 
opening :  now,  as  once  before,  he  let  the  matter  wait. 

Randolph  thought  over  Cope's  statement  of  his 
plans,  and  his  slight  touch  of  pique  did  not  pass  away. 
Toward  the  end  of  the  evening,  he  spoke  of  the  wreck 
and  the  rescue,  after  all. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "you  are  not  so  completely  com 
mitted  as  I  feared." 

"Committed?" 

"By  your  new  household  arrangements." 

"Well,  I  shall  have  back  my  chum." 

Randolph  put  forward  the  alternative. 


COPE  AMONG  CROSS-CURRENTS          173 

"I  was  afraid,  for  a  moment,  that  you  might  be 
taking  a  wife." 

"A  wife?" 

"Yes.  Such  a  rescue  often  leads  straight  to  matri 
mony — in  the  story-books,  anyhow." 

Cope  laughed,  but  with  a  slight  disrelish.  "We're  in 
actual  life  still,  I'm  glad  to  think.  What  I  said  on 
one  stretch  of  the  shore  goes  on  the  other,"  he  de 
clared.  "I  don't  feel  any  more  inclination  to  wedded 
life  than  ever,  nor  any  likelihood" — here  he  spoke 
with  effort,  as  if  conscious  of  a  possible  danger  on 
some  remote  horizon — "of  entering  it." 

"It  would  have  been  sudden,  wouldn't  it?"  com 
mented  Randolph,  with  a  short  laugh.  "Well,"  he 
went  on,  "one  who  inclines  to  hospitality  must  work 
with  the  material  at  his  disposal.  I  shall  be  glad,  on 
some  occasion  or  other,"  he  proceeded,  with  a  slight 
trace  of  formality  creeping  into  his  tone,  "to  entertain 
your  friend." 

"I  shall  be  more  than  glad,"  replied  Cope,  "to  have 
vou  meet." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
COPE  AT  THE  CALL  OF  DUTY 

COPE  took  his  own  time  in  calling  upon  the  Ash- 
burn  Avenue  circle;  but  he  finally  made,  in  person, 
the  inquiries  for  which  those  made  by  telephone  were 
an  inadequate  substitute.  Yet  he  waited  so  long  that, 
only  a  few  hours  before  the  time  he  had  set,  he  re 
ceived  a  sweet  but  somewhat  urgent  little  note  from 
Amy  Leffingwell  suggesting  his  early  appearance.  He 
felt  obliged  to  employ  the  first  moments  of  his  call  in 
explaining  that  he  had  been  upon  the  point  of  coming, 
anyway,  and  that  he  had  set  aside  the  present  hour 
two  or  three  days  before  for  this  particular  purpose: 
an  explanation,  he  acknowledged  inwardly,  which  held 
no  great  advantage  for  him. 

"Why  am  I  spinning  such  stuff?"  he  asked  himself 
impatiently. 

Amy's  note  of  course  minimized  her  aid  to  him  and 
magnified  his  aid  to  her.  All  this  was  in  accord  with 
established  form,  but  it  was  in  still  stronger  accord 
with  her  determination  to  idealize  his  share  in  the  in 
cident.  His  arm  had  grasped  hers  firmly — and  she 
felt  it  yet.  But  when  she  went  on  to  say — not  for 
the  first  time,  nor  for  the  second — how  kind  and  sym 
pathetic  he  had  been  in  supporting  her  chin  against 
those  slapping  waves  when  the  shore  had  seemed  so 

174 


COPE  AT  THE  CALL  OF  DUTY  175 

far  away,  he  wondered  whether  he  had  really  done  so. 
For  a  moment  or  two,  possibly;  but  surely  not  as 
part  of  a  conscious,  reasoned  scheme  to  save. 

"She  was  doing  all  right  enough,"  he  muttered  in 
frowning  protest. 

Neither  did  he  welcome  Mrs.  Phillips'  tendency  to 
make  him  a  hero.  She  was  as  willing  as  the  girl  her 
self  to  believe  that  he  had  kept  Amy's  chin  above 
water — not  for  a  moment  merely,  but  through  most 
of  the  transit  to  shore.  He  sat  there  uneasily,  press 
ing  his  thumbs  between  his  palms  and  his  closed  fingers 
and  drawing  up  his  feet  crampingly  within  their  shoes ; 
yet  it  somewhat  eased  his  tension  to  find  that  Medora 
Phillips  was  disposed  to  put  Amy  into  a  subordinate 
place:  Amy  had  been  but  a  means  to  an  end — her 
prime  merit  consisted  in  having  given  him  a  chance 
to  function.  Any  other  girl  would  have  done  as  well. 
A  slight  relief,  but  a  welcome. 

Another  mitigation :  the  house,  the  room,  was  full 
of  people.  The  other  young  women  of  the  household 
were  present;  even  the  young  business-man  who  had 
understood  the  stove  and  the  pump  had  looked  in :  no 
chance  for  an  intense,  segregated  appreciation.  There 
had  been  another  week-end  at  the  dunes,  when  this 
youth  had  nimbly  ranged  the  forest  and  the  beach  to 
find  wood  for  the  great  open  fireplace;  and  he  had 
come,  now,  at  the  end  of  the  season,  to  make  due 
acknowledgments  for  privileges  enjoyed.  He,  for  his 
part,  was  willing  enough  to  regard  Amy  as  a  heroine ; 
but  he  considered  her  as  a  heroine  linked  with  the 
wrong  man  and  operative  in  the  wrong  place.  He 


176  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

cared  nothing  in  the  world  for  Cope,  and  disparaged 
him  as  before — when  he  did  not  ignore  him  altogether. 
If  Amy  had  but  been  rescued  by  him,  George  F.  Pear 
son,  instead  of  by  this  Bertram  Cope,  and  if  she  had 
been  snatched  from  a  disorderly  set  of  breakers  at  the 
foot  of  those  disheveled  sandhills  instead  of  from  the 
prim,  prosy,  domestic  edge  of  Churchton — well, 
wouldn't  the  affair  have  been  better  set  and  better  car 
ried  off?  In  such  case  it  might  have  been  picturesque 
and  heroic,  instead  of  slightly  silly. 

Yes,  the  room  was  full.  Even  Joseph  Foster  had 
contrived  to  get  himself  brought  down  by  Peter:  fur 
ther  practice  for  the  day  when  he  should  make  a  still 
more  ambitious  flight  and  dine  at  Randolph's  new 
table.  He  sat  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  room  and  tried 
to  get,  as  best  he  might,  the  essential  hang  of  the 
situation:  the  soft,  insidious  insistence  of  Amy;  the 
momentum  and  bravado  of  his  sister-in-law ;  the  veiled 
disparagement  of  Cope  in  which  George  F.  Pearson, 
seated  on  a  sofa  between  Carolyn  and  Hortense,  in 
dulged  for  their  benefit,  or  for  his  own  relief;  above 
all,  he  listened  for  tones  and  undertones  from  Cope 
himself.  He  had  never  seen  Cope  before  (if  indeed 
it  could  be  said  that  he  really  saw  him  now),  and  he 
had  never  heard  his  speaking  voice  save  at  a  remove 
of  two  floors.  Cope  had  taken  his  hand  vigorously,  as 
that  of  the  only  man  (among  many  women)  from 
whom  he  had  much  to  expect,  and  had  given  him  a 
dozen  words  in  a  loud  tone  which  seemed  to  corre 
spond  with  his  pressure.  But  Cope's  voice,  in  his 
hearing,  had  lapsed  from  resonance  to  non-resonance, 


COPE  AT  THE  CALL  OF  DUTY  177 

and  from  that  to  tonelessness,  and  from  that  to 
quietude.  .  .  .  Was  the  fellow  in  process  of  mak 
ing  a  long  diminuendo — a  possible  matter  of  weeks  or 
of  months?  As  before,  when  confronted  by  what  had 
once  seemed  a  paragon  of  dash  and  vigor,  he  scarcely 
knew  whether  to  be  exasperated  or  appeased. 

Through  this  variety  of  spoken  words  and  unspoken 
thoughts  Hortense  sat  silent  and  watchful.  Pres 
ently  the  talk  lapsed:  with  the  best  will  in  the  world 
a  small  knot  of  people  cannot  go  on  elaborately  em 
broidering  upon  a  trivial  incident  forever.  There  was 
a  shifting  of  groups,  a  change  in  subjects.  Yet  Hor 
tense  continued  to  glower  and  to  meditate.  What  had 
the  incident  really  amounted  to?  What  did  the  man 
himself  really  amount  to?  She  soon  found  herself  at 
his  side,  behind  the  library-table  and  its  spreading 
lamp-shade.  He  was  silently  handling  a  paper-cutter, 
with  his  eyes  cast  down. 

"See  me!"  she  said,  in  a  tense,  vibratory  tone. 
"Speak  to  me !" — and  she  glowered  upon  him.  "I  am 
no  kitten,  like  Amy.  I  am  no  tame  tabby,  like  Caro 
lyn,  sending  out  written  invitations.  Throw  a  few 
poor  words  my  way." 

Cope  dropped  the  paper-cutter.  Her  address  was 
like  a  dash  of  brine  in  the  face,  and  he  welcomed  it. 

"Tell  me;  did  you  look  absurd — then?"  she  dashed 
ahead. 

A  return  to  fresh  water,  after  all !  "Why,"  he  re 
joined  reluctantly,  "no  man,  dressed  in  all  his  clothes, 
looks  any  the  better  for  being  soaked  through." 

"And  Amy, — she  must  have  looked  absolutely  ridic- 


178  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

ulous  !  That  wide,  flapping  hat,  and  all !  I  had  been 
telling  her  for  weeks  that  it  was  out  of  style." 

"She  threw  it  away,"  said  Cope  shortly.  "And  I 
suppose  her  hair  looked  as  well  as  a  woman's  ever 
does,  when  she's  in  the  water." 

"Well,"  she  observed,  "it's  one  thing  to  be  ridiculous 
and  another  to  go  on  being  ridiculous.  I  hope  you 
don't  mean  to  do  that?" 

The  pronoun  "you"  has  its  equivocal  aspects.  Her 
expression,  while  marked  enough,  threw  no  clear  light. 
Cope  took  the  entire  onus  on  himself. 

"Of  course  no  man  would  choose  to  be  ridiculous — 
still  less  to  stay  so.  Do,  please,  let  me  keep  on  dry 
land ;  I'm  beginning  to  feel  water-logged."  He  shifted 
his  ground.  "Why  do  you  try  to  make  it  seem  that 
I  don't  care  to  talk  with  you?" 

"Because  you  don't.     Haven't  I  noticed  it?" 

"I  haven't.     It  seems  to  me  that  I " 

"Of  course  you  haven't.  Does  that  make  it  any 
better?" 

"I'm  sure  the  last  thing  in  the  world  I  should  want 
to  do  would  be  to " 

"I  know.  Would  be  to  show  partiality.  To  fail 
in  treating  all  alike.  Even  that  small  programme 
isn't  much — nor  likely  to  please  any  girl ;  but  you  have 
failed  to  carry  it  out,  small  as  it  is.  Here  in  this 
house,  there  on  the  dunes,  what  have  I  been — and 
where?  Put  into  any  obscure  corner,  lost  in  the 
woods,  left  off  somewhere  on  the  edge  of  things.  .  .  ." 

Cope  stared  and  tried  to  stem  her  protests.  She 
was  of  the  blood, — her  aunt's  own  niece.  But  whereas 


COPE  AT  THE  CALL  OF  DUTY  179 

Medora  Phillips  sometimes  "scrapped,"  as  he  called  it, 
merely  to  promote  social  diversion  and  to  keep  the 
conversational  ball  a-rolling,  this  young  person,  a 
more  vigorous  organism,  and  with  decided,  even  exag 
gerated  ideas  as  to  her  dues  .  .  .  Well,  the  room 
was  still  full,  and  he  was  glad  enough  of  it. 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  like  you  or  not,"  she  went 
on,  in  a  low,  rapid  tone;  "and  I  don't  suppose  you 

very  much  like  me;  but  I  won't  go  on  being  ignored 
» 

"Ignored?  Why,"  stammered  Cope,  "my  sense  of 
obligation  to  this  house " 

She  shrugged  scornfully.  His  sense  of  obligation 
had  been  made  none  too  apparent.  Certainly  it  had 
not  been  brought  into  line  with  her  deserts  and  de 
mands. 

Cope  took  up  the  paper-cutter  again  and  looked  out 
across  the  room.  Amy  Leffingwell,  questioningly,  was 
looking  across  at  him.  He  could  change  feet — if  that 
made  the  general  discomfort  of  his  position  any  less. 
He  did  so. 

Amy  was  standing  near  the  piano  and  held  a  sheet 
or  two  of  new  music  in  her  hands.  And  Medora 
Phillips,  with  a  word  of  general  explication  and  di 
rection,  made  the  girl's  intention  clear.  Amy  had 
a  new  song  for  baritone,  with  a  violin  obbligato  and 
the  usual  piano  accompaniment,  and  Cope  was  to  sing 
it.  'Twas  an  extremely  simple  thing,  quite  within 
his  compass ;  and  Carolyn,  who  could  read  easy  music 
at  sight  ("It's  awfully  easy,"  declared  Amy),  would 
play  the  piano  part ;  and  Amy  herself  would  perform 


180  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

the  obbligato  (with  no  statement  as  to  whether  it  was 
simple  or  not). 

Carolyn  approached  the  task  and  the  piano  in  the 
passive  spirit  of  accommodation.  Cope  came  forward 
with  reluctance :  this  was  not  an  evening  when  he  felt 
like  singing;  besides,  he  preferred  to  choose  his  own 
songs.  Also,  he  would  have  preferred  to  warm  up  on 
something  familiar.  Amy  took  her  instrument  from 
its  case  with  a  suppressed  sense  of  ecstasy ;  and  it  is 
the  ecstatic  who  generally  sets  the  pace. 

The  thing  went  none  too  well.  Amy  was  the  only 
one  who  had  seen  the  music  before,  and  she  was  the 
only  one  who  particularly  wanted  to  make  music  now. 
However,  the  immediate  need  was  not  that  the  song 
should  go  well,  but  that  it  should  go:  that  it  should 
go  on,  that  it  should  go  on  and  on,  repetitiously,  until 
it  should  come  (or  even  not  come)  to  go  better.  She 
slid  her  bow  across  the  strings  with  tasteful  passion. 
She  enjoyed  still  more  than  her  own  tones  the  tones 
of  Cope's  voice, — tones  which,  whether  in  happy  uni 
son  with  hers  or  not,  were,  after  all,  seldom  misplaced, 
whatever  they  may  have  lacked  in  heartiness  and  con 
fidence.  It  was  a  short  piece,  and  on  the  third  time 
it  went  rather  well. 

"How  perfectly  lovely !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Phillips, 
at  the  right  moment. 

Cope  smiled  deprecatingly.  "It  might  be  made  to 
go  very  nicely,"  he  said. 

"It  has  gone  very  nicely,"  insisted  Amy;  "it  did, 
this  last  time."  She  waved  her  bow  with  some  vivacity. 
She  had  heaved  the  whole  of  her  young  self  into  the 


COPE  AT  THE  CALL  OF  DUTY  181 

work ;  she  had  been  buoyed  up  by  Cope's  tones,  which, 
with  repetition,  had  gathered  assurance  if  not  ex 
pressiveness  ;  and  she  based  her  estimate  of  the  gen 
eral  effect  on  the  impression  which  her  own  inner  na 
ture  had  experienced.  And  her  impression  was 
heightened  when  Pearson,  forging  forward,  and  ignor 
ing  both  Cope  and  Carolyn,  thanked  her  richly  and 
emphatically  for  her  part — a  part  which,  to  him, 
seemed  the  whole. 

Hortense,  who  had  kept  her  place  behind  the  large 
lamp-shade,  twisted  her  interlocked  fingers  and  said 
no  word.  Foster,  who  had  disposed  himself  on  an  in 
conspicuous  couch,  kept  his  own  counsel.  After  all, 
omne  ignotum:  Cope's  singing  had  sounded  better 
from  upstairs.  At  close  range  a  ringing  assertive- 
ness  had  somehow  failed. 

Cope  had  come  with  no  desire  to  extend  his  stay 
beyond  the  limits  of  an  evening  call.  He  declined  to 
sing  on  his  own  account,  and  soon  rose  as  if  to  make 
his  general  adieux. 

"You  won't  give  us  one  of  your  own  songs,  then?" 
asked  Medora  Phillips,  in  a  disappointed  tone.  "And 
at  my  dinner " 

No,  she  could  not  quite  say  that,  at  her  dinner, 
Cope,  whatever  he  had  failed  to  do,  had  contributed 
no  measure  of  entertainment  for  her  guests. 

"Give  us  a  recitation,  then,"  persisted  Medora; 
"or  tell  us  a  story.  Or  make  up" — here  she  indulged 
herself  in  an  airily  imperious  flight — "a  story  of  your 
own  on  the  spot." 

A  trifling  request,  truly.     But — 


182  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

"Heavens!"  said  Cope.  "I  am  not  an  author — 
still  less  an  improwisatore" 

"I  am  sure  you  could  be,"  returned  Medora  fondly. 
"Just  try." 

Cope  sat  down  again  and  began  to  run  his  eye 
uncomfortably  about  the  room,  as  if  dredging  the  air 
for  an  idea.  Behind  one  corner  of  a  mirror  was  a 
large  bunch  of  drying  leaves.  They  had  been  brought 
in  from  the  sand  dunes  as  a  decorative  souvenir  of  the 
autumn,  and  had  kept  their  place  through  mere  in 
ertia:  an  oak  bough,  once  crimson  and  russet;  a  con 
voluted  length  of  bittersweet,  to  which  a  few  split 
berries  still  clung;  and  a  branch  of  sassafras,  with 
its  intriguing  variety  of  leaves — a  branch  selected, 
in  fact,  because  it  gave,  within  narrow  compass,  the 
plant's  entire  scope  and  repertoire  as  to  foliage. 

Cope  caught  at  the  sassafras  as  a  falling  balloonist 
catches  at  his  parachute. 

"Well,"  he  said,  still  reluctant  and  fumbling,  "per 
haps  I  can  devise  a  legend:  the  Legend,  let  us  say, 
of  the  Sassafras  Bush." 

"Good !"  cried  Medora  heartily. 

Pearson,  whispering  to  Amy  Leffingwell,  gave  little 
heed  to  Cope  and  his  strained  endeavor  to  please  Mrs. 
Phillips.  Foster,  quite  passive,  listened  with  curios 
ity  for  what  might  come. 

"Or  perhaps  you  would  prefer  folk-lore,"  Cope  went 
on.  "Why  the  Sassafras  has  Three  Kinds  of  Leaves, 
or  something  like  that." 

"Better  yet !"  exclaimed  Medora.     "Listen,  every- 


COPE  AT  THE  CALL  OF  DUTY  183 

body.  Why  the  Sassafras  has  Three  Kinds  of 
Leaves." 

Pearson  stopped  his  buzzings,  and  Cope  began. 
"The  Wood-nymphs,"  he  said  slowly,  "were  a  nice 
enough  lot  of  girls,  but  they  labored  under  one  great 
disadvantage:  they  had  no  thumbs." 

Hor tense  pricked  up  her  ears.  Did  he  mean  to  be 
personal?  If  so,  he  should  find  that  one  of  the  nymphs 
had  a  whole  hand  as  surely  as  he  himself  had  a  cheek. 

Cope  paused.  "Of  course  you've  got  to  postulate 
something,"  he  submitted  apologetically. 

"Of  course,"  Medora  agreed. 

"So  when  they  bought  their  gloves,  or  mittens,  or 
whatever  their  handgear  might  be  called,  they  usually 
patronized  the  hickory  or  the  beech  or  some  other 
tree  with  leaves  that  were " 

"Ovate !"  cried  Medora  delightedly. 

"Ovate,  yes;  or  whatever  just  the  right  word  may 
be.  But  a  good  many  of  them  traded  at  the  Sign  of 
the  Sassafras,  where  they  found  leaves  that  were  simi 
lar,  but  rather  more  delicate." 

"I  believe  he's  going  to  do  it,"  thought  Foster. 

"Yet  the  nymphs  knew  that  they  lacked  thumbs  and 
kept  on  wanting  them.  So,  during  the  long,  dull  win 
ter,  they  put  their  minds  to  it,  and  finally  thumbs 
came." 

"Will-power !"  said  Medora. 

"And  early  in  April  they  went  to  the  Sassafras  and 
paid :  'We  have  thumbs  !  we  have  thumbs  !  So  we  need 
a  different  sort  of  mitten.' 


184  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

"The  Sassafras  was  only  half  awake.  'Thumbs?' 
he  repeated.  'How  many?5 

"  'Two!'  cried  the  nymphs.     'Two  !' 

"A  passing  breeze  roused  the  Sassafras.  He  be 
came  at  least  three-quarters  awake." 

"I  doubt  it,"  muttered  Hortense. 

"  'That's  interesting,'  he  said.  4I  aim  to  supply 
all  new  needs.  Come  back  in  a  month  or  so,  and 
meanwhile  I'll  see  what  I  can  do  for  you.' 

"In  May  the  nymphs  returned  with  their  thumbs 
and  asked,  'How  about  our  new  mittens  ?'  ' 

The  story  was  really  under  way  now,  and  Cope 
went  on  with  more  confidence  and  with  greater  anima 
tion. 

"  'Look  and  see,'  said  the  Sassafras. 

"They  looked  and  saw.  Among  its  simple  ordinary 
leaves  were  several  with  two  lobes — one  on  each  side. 
'Will  these  do?' 

"'Do?'  said  the  nymphs.  'We  said  we  had  two 
thumbs,  but  we  meant  one  on  each  hand,  stupid.  Do? 
We  should  say  not!' 

"The  Sassafras  was  mortified.  'Well,'  he  said, 
'that's  all  I  can  manage  this  season.  I'm  sorry  not 
to  have  understood  you  young  ladies  and  your  needs. 
Come  back  again  next  spring.' 

"It  was  a  long  time  to  wait,  but  they  waited.  Next 
May " 

Amy,  now  unworried  by  George  Pearson,  began  to 
get  the  thread  of  the  thing.  Foster  was  sure 
the  thread  would  run  through.  Hortense  was  still 
alert  for  ulterior  meanings.  Poor  Cope,  however,  had 


COPE  AT  THE  CALL  OF  DUTY  185 

no  ambition  to  spin  a  double  thread, — a  single  one 
was  all  he  was  equal  to. 

"Next  May  the  nymphs,  after  nursing  their  thumbs 
for  a  year — 

Hortense  frowned. 

" came  back  again ;  and  there,  among  the  plain 

leaves  and  the  double-lobed  leaves,  were  several  fresh 
bright,  smooth  ones  with  a  single  lobe  well  to  one  side, 
— the  very  thing  for  mittens.  And — 

"Yes,  he  has  done  it,"  Foster  acknowledged. 

"And  that,"  ended  Cope  rather  stridently,  as  he 
rose  to  go  on  the  flood  of  a  sudden  yet  unexpected 
success,  "is  Why  the  Sassafras — 

"Why  the  Sassafras  has  Three  Kinds  of  Leaves !" 
cried  Medora  in  triumph.  Mittens  for  midsummer 
made  no  difficulty. 

Cope  gave  Carolyn  careful  thanks  for  her  support 
at  the  piano,  and  did  not  see  that  she  felt  he  too  could 
be  a  poet  if  he  only  would.  He  went  out  of  his  way 
to  shake  hands  with  Hortense,  and  did  not  realize 
how  nearly  a  new  quarrel  had  opened.  He  stepped 
over  to  do  the  like  with  Amy;  but  she  went  out  with 
him  into  the  hall, — the  only  one  of  the  party  who 
did, — and  even  accompanied  him  to  the  front  door. 

"Thank  you  so  much,"  she  said,  looking  up  into  his 
face  smilingly  and  holding  his  hand  with  a  long,  cling 
ing  touch.  "It  went  beautifully ;  and  there  are  others 
that  will  go  even  better." 

"Others?"  He  thought,  for  an  instant,  that  she 
was  thanking  him  for  his  Legend  and  was  even  threat 
ening  to  regard  him  as  a  flowing  fount  of  invention; 


186  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

but  he  soon  realized  that  her  mind  was  fixed  exclu 
sively  on  their  duet — if  such  it  was  to  be  called. 
"The  deuce!"  he  thought.  "Enough  is  enough." 
Despite  his  success  with  the  Sassafras,  he  went  home 
discomforted  and  even  flustered.  That  hand  was  too 
much  like  the  hand  of  possession.  The  girl  was  steal 
ing  over  him  like  a  light,  intangible  vapor.  He  struck 
ahead  with  a  quicker  gait,  as  if  trying  to  outwalk  a 
creeping  fog.  One  consolation,  however:  Hortense 
had  come  like  a  puff  of  wind.  Even  a  second  squall 
from  the  same  quarter  would  not  be  altogether  amiss. 
And  had  there  not  been  one  further  fleeting  source 
of  reassurance?  Had  he  not,  on  leaving,  caught 
through  the  open  door  of  the  drawing  room  an  eleva 
tion  of  Medora  Phillips'  eyebrows  which  seemed  to 
say  fondly,  indulgently,  yet  a  bit  ironically,  "Oh,  you 
foolish  girl !"  ?  Yet  if  a  girl  is  foolish,  and  is  going  to 
persist  in  her  folly,  a  lightly  lifted  pair  of  eyebrows 
will  not  always  stay  her  course.  Her  gathering  mom 
entum  is  hardly  to  be  checked  by  such  slender  means. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

COPE  FINDS  HIMSELF  COMMITTED 

AMY  LEFFIXGWELL,  having  written  once,  found  it 
easier  to  write  again.  And  having  strolled  along  the 
edge  of  the  bluff  with  Cope  on  that  fateful  Sunday, 
she  found  it  natural  to  intercept  him  on  other  parts 
of  the  campus  (where  their  paths  might  easily  cross), 
or  to  stroll  with  him,  after  casual  encounters  carefully 
planned,  through  sheets  of  fallen  leaves  under  the  wide 
avenues  of  elms  just  outside.  Her  third  note  almost 
summoned  him  to  a  rendezvous.  It  annoyed  him ;  but 
he  might  have  been  more  than  annoyed  had  he  known 
of  her  writing,  rather  simply,  to  a  rather  simple 
mother  in  Fort  Lodge,  Iowa,  about  her  hopes — and 
her  expectations.  Her  mother  had,  of  course,  heard 
in  detail  of  the  rescue;  and  afterward  had  heard  in 
still  greater  detail,  as  the  roseate  lime-light  of  idealiza 
tion  had  come  to  focus  more  exactly  on  the  scene.  She 
had  had  also  an  unaffected  appreciation — or  several — 
of  Cope's  personal  graces  and  accomplishments.  She 
had  heard,  lastly,  of  Cope's  song  to  her  daughter's 
obbligato :  a  duet  in  vacuo,  since  Carolyn  had  been 
suppressed  and  the  surrounding  company  had  been 
banished  to  a  remote  circumference.  What  wonder 
that  she  began  to  see  her  daughter  and  Bertram  Cope 

187 


188  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

in  an  admirable  isolation  and  to  intimate  that  she 
hoped,  very  soon,  for  definite  news? 

Well,  not  a  few  of  us  have  met  an  Amy  Leffingwell : 
some  plump-faced,  pink-cheeked  child,  with  a  delicate 
little  concave  nose  not  at  all  "strong,"  and  a  fine 
little  chin  none  too  vigorously  moulded,  and  a  pair 
of  timid  candid  blue  eyes  shadowed  by  a  wisp  or  so 
of  fluffy  hair — and  have  not  always  taken  her  for  what 
she  was.  She  "wouldn't  hurt  a  kitten,"  we  say;  and 
we  assume  that  her  "striking  out  a  line  for  herself" 
is  the  last  thing  she  would  try  to  do.  Yet  such  an 
unimpressive  and  disarming  fa£ade  may  mask  large 
chambers  of  stubbornness  and  tenacity. 

Amy  knew  how  long  and  hard  she  had  thought  of 
Cope,  and  she  asked  for  some  evidence  that  he  had 
been  thinking  long  and  hard  of  her.  She  desired  a 
"response."  But,  in  fact,  he  had  been  thinking  of 
her  only  when  he  must.  He  thought  of  her  whenever 
he  saw  himself  caught  in  that  flapping  sail,  and  he 
thought  of  her  whenever  he  recalled  that  she  had 
taken  it  on  herself  to  select  his  songs.  But  he  did  not 
want  her  to  make  out-and-out  demands  on  his  time 
and  attention.  Still  less  did  he  want  her  to  talk 
about  "happiness."  This  had  come  to  be  her  favorite 
topic,  and  she  discoursed  on  it  profusely :  he  was 
almost  ungracious  enough  to  say  that  she  did  so 
glibly.  "Happiness" — that  conventional  bliss  toward 
which  she  was  turning  her  mind  as  they  strolled  to 
gether  on  these  late  November  afternoons — was  for 
him  a  long  way  ahead.  How  furnish  a  house,  how 
clothe  and  feed  a  wife? — at  least  until  his  thesis  should 


COPE  FINDS  HIMSELF  COMMITTED      189 

be  written  and  a  place,  with  a  real  salary,  found  in 
the  academic  world.  How,  even,  buy  an  engagement 
ring — that  costly  superfluity?  How  even  contrive 
to  pay  for  all  the  small  gifts  and  attentions  which  an 
engagement  involved  ?  Yet  why  ask  himself  such  ques 
tions?  For  he  was  conscious  of  a  fundamental  re 
pugnance  to  any  such  scheme  of  life  and  was  acutely 
aware  that — for  awhile,  at  least,  and  perhaps  for 
always — he  wanted  to  live  in  quite  a  different  mode. 
Amy's  confident  assumptions  began  to  fill  the  house, 
to  alter  its  atmosphere.  Medora  Phillips,  who  had 
begun  by  raising  her  eyebrows  in  light  criticism,  now 
lowered  them  in  frowning  protest.  She  had  found 
Cope  "charming";  but  this  charm  of  his  was  to  add 
to  the  attractiveness  of  her  house  and  to  give  her  a 
high  degree  of  personal  gratification.  It  was  not  to  be 
frittered  away;  still  less  was  it  to  be  absorbed  else 
where.  Hortense,  who  had  been  secretly  at  work  on  a 
portrait-sketch  of  Cope  in  oil,  and  rather  despising 
herself  for  it,  now  began  to  make  another  bold  picture 
in  her  own  mind.  She  saw  herself  handing  out  the 
sketch  to  Cope  in  person,  with  an  air  of  high  bravado ; 
she  might  say,  if  bad  came  to  worse,  that  she  had 
found  some  professional  interest  in  his  color  or  in  his 
"planes."  On  one  occasion  Medora  hardily  requisi 
tioned  Cope  for  an  evening  at  the  theatre,  in  the  city ; 
miles  in  and  miles  back  she  had  him  in  her  car  all  to 
herself;  and  if  Amy,  next  day,  appeared  to  feel  that 
wealth  and  organization  had  taken  an  unfair  advan 
tage  of  simple,  honest  love,  Medora  herself  was 
troubled  by  no  stirrings  of  conscience. 


190  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

The  new  atmosphere  reached  even  Foster  on  the 
top  floor;  and  when,  one  evening  in  mid-December,  he 
finally  carried  out  his  long-meditated  plan  to  dine 
with  Randolph,  the  household  situation  was  upper 
most  in  his  mind.  That  he  had  not  the  clearest  under 
standing  of  the  situation  did  not  diminish  his  interest 
in  it.  Though  he  sat  in  the  dark,  and  far  apart,  some 
sense  all  his  own,  cultivated  through  years  of  depriva 
tion,  came  to  his  aid.  Peter  brought  him  down  the 
street  and  round  the  corner;  and  Randolph's  China 
man,  fascinated  by  his  green  shade  and  his  tortuous 
method  of  locomotion  (once  out  of  his  wheeled-chair), 
did  the  rest.  "You  had  better  stay  all  night,"  Ran 
dolph  had  suggested ;  and  he  was  glad  to  avoid  a  sec 
ond  awkward  trip  on  the  same  evening. 

Foster  had  wondered  whether  Cope  would  be  pres 
ent.  He  had  not  asked  to  meet  him — for  he  hardly 
knew  whether  he  wished  to  or  not.  Though  this  was 
an  "occasion," — and  his, — he  had  left  Randolph  to  act 
quite  as  he  might  choose.  There  was  a  third  chair  at 
table  and  Randolph  delayed  dinner  ten  minutes  while 
waiting  for  it  to  be  filled. 

"Well,  let's  go  in  and  sit  down,"  he  said  presently, 
with  a  slight  twist  of  the  mouth.  He  spoke  lightly,  as 
if  it  were  as  easy  for  Foster  to  sit  down  as  for  him 
self.  But  Foster  got  into  his  place  after  a  moment 
and  contrived  to  spread  his  napkin  over  his  legs. 

"I  expected  Bertram  Cope,"  Randolph  went  on; 
"but  he  isn't  here,  and  I  have  no  word  from  him  and 
do  not  know  whether " 

He  paused,  obviously  at  a  loss. 


COPE  FINDS  HIMSELF  COMMITTED      191 

"Not  here?"  repeated  Foster.  "Is  there,  then,  one 
place  where  he  is  not?" 

"Why,  Joe !" 

"Our  house  is  full  of  him!"  Foster  burst  out  rau 
cously.  He  had  removed  the  green  abat-jour,  for  the 
candle-shades  (as  they  sometimes  will)  were  perform 
ing  their  office.  In  the  low  but  clear  light  his  face 
seemed  distorted. 

"He  rises  to  my  floor  like  incense.  The  very  halls 
and  stairways  reek  with  his  charms  and  perfections." 

"Well,  you  escape  him  here,"  said  Randolph  rue 
fully. 

"The  whole  miserable  place  is  steaming  with  ex 
pectation, — with  the  deadly  aroma  of  a  courtship 
going  stale.  I  can't  stand  it !  I  can't  stand  it !" 

"Courtship?" 

"You  may  think  it  takes  two,  but  it  doesn't.  That 
foolish  girl  has  thrown  the  whole  place  into  discom 
fort  and  confusion;  and  I  don't  know  who's  for  or 
who's  against " 

"What  foolish  girl?"  asked  Randolph  quickly. 
Sing-Lo  was  at  his  elbow,  changing  plates :  it  was  as 
sumed,  justly  enough,  that  he  would  not  be  able  to 
follow  the  intricacies  of  a  situation  purely  occidental. 

"Our  Amy,"  replied  Foster,  with  a  dash  of  bitter 
ness. 

"Amy  Leffingwell?"  asked  Randolph,  still  more 
quickly. 

Foster  had  blind  eyes,  but  alert  ears.  He  felt  that 
Randolph  was  surprised  and  displeased.  And  indeed 
his  host  was  both.  That  boy  fallen  maladroitly  in 


192  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

love?  thought  Randolph.  It  was  a  second  check.  He 
had  exerted  himself  to  show  a  friendliness  for  Cope, 
had  expected  to  enjoy  him  while  he  stayed  on  for  his 
months  in  town,  and  had  hoped  to  help  push  his  for 
tunes  in  whatever  other  field  he  might  enter.  He 
had  even  taken  his  present  quarters — no  light  task, 
all  the  details  considered — to  make  Cope's  winter 
agreeable,  no  less  than  his  own.  And  now  ?  First  the 
uncounted-upon  friend  from  Wisconsin  with  whom 
Cope  was  arranging  to  live;  next,  this  sudden,  unex 
pected  affair  with  that  girl  at  Medora's.  Did  the  fel 
low  not  know  his  own  mind?  Could  he  formulate  no 
hard-and-fast  plan?  Here  Randolph,  in  his  disap 
pointment,  inconsistently  forgot  that  a  hard-and-fast 
plan  was  largely  his  real  annoyance  and  grievance. 
Then  he  remembered.  He  looked  at  the  vacant  place, 
and  tried  for  composure  and  justice. 

"I  shall  probably  hear  some  good  reason,  in  due 
time,"  he  said. 

"I  hope  so,"  rejoined  Foster;  "but  it  takes  these 
young  fellows  to  be  careless — and  ungrateful."  He 
made  no  pretense  of  ignoring  the  fact  that  Randolph 
had  moved  into  this  apartment  more  on  account  of 
Cope  than  for  any  other  reason. 

"H'm,  yes,"  responded  Randolph  thoughtfully.  "I 
suppose  it  is  the  tendency  of  a  young  fellow  who  has 
never  quite  stood  on  his  own  legs  financially  to  accept 
about  everything  that  comes  his  way,  and  to  accept 
it  as  a  matter  of  course." 

"It  is,"  said  Foster. 

"I  know  that  7  was  that  way,"  continued  Randolph, 


COPE  FINDS  HIMSELF  COMMITTED      193 

looking  studiously  at  the  nearest  candle-shade.  "I 
was  beyond  the  middle  twenties  before  I  quite  launched 
out  for  myself,  and  any  kindness  received  was  taken 
without  much  question  and  without  much  thanks.  I 
presume  that  he  still  has  some  assistance  from  home 

>5 

He  dropped  youthful  insouciance  over  favors  re 
ceived  to  consider  the  change  that  marriage  makes  in 
a  young  man's  status.  "I  wouldn't  go  so  far  as  to 
assert  that  a  young  man  married  is  a  man  that's 
marred " 

"That  is  stiff  doctrine,"  Foster  acknowledged. 

"But  somehow  he  does  seem  done  for.  He  is  placed ; 
he  is  cut  off  from  wide  ranges  of  interesting  possi 
bilities  ;  he  offers  himself  less  invitingly  to  the  roving 
imagination  .  .  ." 

Meanwhile  Cope,  with  Randolph's  invitation  driven 
altogether  from  his  mind  by  more  urgent  matters, 
was  pacing  the  streets,  through  the  first  snow-flurries 
of  the  winter,  and  was  wondering,  rather  distractedly, 
just  where  he  stood.  Precisely  what  words,  at  a  very 
brief  yet  critical  juncture,  had  he  said,  or  not  said? 
Exactly  how  had  he  phrased — or  failed  to  phrase — 
the  syllables  which  constituted,  perhaps,  a  turning- 
point  in  his  life? 

Amy  Leffingwell  had  demanded  his  attendance  for 
one  more  walk,  that  afternoon,  and  he  had  not  been 
dextrous  enough,  face  to  face  with  her,  to  refuse.  She 
had  expressed  herself  still  more  insistently  on  "happi 
ness" — (on  hers,  his,  theirs;  the  two  were  one,  in  her 
view) — and  on  a  future  shared  together.  In  just 


194  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

what  inadequate  way  had  he  tried  to  fend  her  off? 
Had  he  said,  "I  shall  have  to  wait?"  Or  had  his  blun 
dering  tongue  said,  instead,  "We  should  have  to  wait  ?" 
— or  even  worse,  "We  shall  have  to  wait?"  In  any 
event,  he  had  used  that  cowardly,  temporizing  word 
"wait" — for  she  had  instantly  seized  upon  it.  Why, 
yes,  indeed ;  she  was  willing  to  wait ;  she  had  expected 
to  wait 

He  turned  out  from  an  avenue  lighted  with  electric 
globes,  past  which  the  snowflakes  were  drifting,  and 
entered  a  quieter  and  darker  side-street.  In  the  dusk 
she  had  put  up  her  face,  expecting  to  be  kissed;  and 
he,  partly  out  of  pity  for  the  expression  that  came 
when  he  hesitated,  and  partly  out  of  pure  embarrass 
ment  and  inexpertness,  had  lightly  touched  her  lips. 
That  had  sealed  it,  possibly.  He  saw  her  sitting  in 
rapt  fancy  in  her  bedroom — if  not  more  vocal  in  the 
rooms  below.  He  saw  her  writing  to  an  unseen  mother 
in  a  tone  of  joyful  complacency,  and  looking  at  her 
finger  for  a  ring  which  he  could  not  place  there.  He 
saw  the  distaste  of  his  own  home  circle,  to  which  this 
event  had  come  at  least  a  year  too  soon.  He  saw  the 
amazement,  and  worse,  of  Arthur  Lemoyne,  whose 
plans  for  coming  to  town  were  now  all  made  and  to 
whom  this  turn  would  prove  a  psychological  shock 
which  might  deter  him  from  coming  at  all.  But,  most 
of  all,  he  saw — and  felt  to  the  depths  of  his  being — 
his  own  essential  repugnance  to  the  life  toward  which 
he  now  seemed  headed.  What  an  outlook  for  Christ 
mas  !  What  an  unpleasant  surprise  for  his  parents ! 
What  opportunity  in  Amy  Leffingwell's  holiday  vaca- 


COPE  FINDS  HIMSELF  COMMITTED      195 

tion  at  Fort  Lodge  to  reinforce  the  written  page  by 
the  spoken  word!  Still  forgetful  of  his  engagement 
with  Randolph,  he  continued  to  walk  the  streets.  He 
turned  in  at  midnight,  hoping  he  might  sleep,  and 
trusting  that  morning  would  throw  a  less  sinister 
light  on  his  misadventure. 

Long  before  this,  Joseph  Foster  had  been  put  to 
bed,  by  Sing-Lo,  in  the  spare  room.  It  was  Foster's 
crutch,  rather  than  a  knightly  sword,  which  leaned 
against  the  door-jamb;  and  it  was  Foster's  crooked 
members,  rather  than  the  straight  young  limbs  of 
Cope,  which  first  found  place  among  the  sheets  and 
blankets  of  that  shining  new  brass  bedstead. 


CHAPTER  XX 
COPE  HAS  A  DISTRESSFUL  CHRISTMAS 

COPE  awakened  at  seven.  After  an  early  interval 
of  happy  lightness,  there  came  suddenly  and  heavily 
the  crushing  sense  of  his  predicament.  How  mon 
strous  it  was  that  one  instant  of  time,  one  ill-consid 
ered  action,  one  poorly-chosen  word  could  clamp  a 
repellent  burden  on  a  man  for  the  rest  of  his  life ! 

Well,  he  must  expect  telephone  messages  and  letters. 
They  came.  That  afternoon  Mrs.  Peck  had  "a  lady's 
voice"  to  report:  "It  sounded  like  a  young  lady's 
voice,"  she  added.  And  she  looked  at  Cope  with  some 
curiosity:  a  "young  lady"  asking  for  him  over  the 
wire  was  the  rarest  thing  in  the  world. 

Next  day  came  the  first  note.  The  handwriting 
was  utterly  new  to  him;  but  his  intuition,  applied 
instantly  to  the  envelope,  told  him  of  the  source.  The 
nail,  driven,  was  now  to  be  clinched.  She  had  the 
right  to  ask  him  to  come;  and  she  did  ask  him  to  come 
—"soon." 

Cope's  troubled  eyes  sought  the  calendar  above  his 
table.  How  many  days  to  Christmas?  How  much 
time  might  he  spend  in  Freeford?  How  long  before 
Christmas  might  he  arrange  to  leave  Churchton?  The 
holidays  at  home  loomed  as  a  harbor  of  refuge.  By 
shortening  as  far  as  possible  the  interval  here  and  by 

196 


COPE'S  DISTRESSFUL  CHRISTMAS        197 

lengthening  as  far  as  possible  the  stay  with  his 
ily,  he  might  cut  down,  in  some  measure,  the^mum- 
nent  threatenings  of  awkwardness  and  constraint; 
then,  beyond  the  range  of  anything  but  letters,  he 
might  study  the  unpleasant  situation  at  his  leisure  and 
determine  a  future  course. 

He  set  himself  to  answer  Amy's  note.  He  hoped, 
he  said,  to  see  her  in  a  few  days,  but  he  was  immensely 
busy  in  closing  the  term-work  before  the  holidays ; 
he  also  suggested  that  their  affair — "their"  affair! — 
be  kept  quiet  for  the  present.  Yet  he  had  all  too 
facile  a  vision  of  beatific  meditations  that  were  like 
enough  to  give  the  situation  away  to  all  the  house 
hold  ;  and  he  was  nervously  aware  of  Amy  Leffingwell 
as  continually  on  the  verge  of  bubbling  confidences. 

He  also  wrote  to  Lemoyne.  His  letter  was  less  an 
announcement  than  a  confession. 

"I  like  this !"  began  Lemoyne's  reply,  with  abrupt, 
impetuous  sarcasm.  "You  have  claimed,  more  than 
once,"  he  went  on,  "to  have  steadied  me  and  kept  me 
out  of  harm's  way ;  but  I've  never  yet  made  any  such 
demands  on  you  as  you  are  making  on  me.  This  thing 
can't  go  on,  and  you  know  it  as  well  as  I  do.  Nip  it. 
Nip  it  now.  Don't  think  that  our  intimacy  is  to  end 
in  any  such  fashion  as  this,  for  it  isn't — especially 
at  this  particular  time." 

Lemoyne  proceeded  to  practical  matters.  "If  that 
room  is  still  free,  engage  it  from  the  first  of  January. 
I  will  have  a  few  things  sent  down.  Father  is  weak 
ening  a  little.  Anyhow,  I've  got  enough  money  for 
a  couple  of  months.  I  will  join  you  in  Freeford  be- 


198  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

tween  Christmas  and  New  Year's  (nearer  the  latter, 
probably),  and  we  will  go  back  together."  .  . 

Cope  rather  took  heart  from  these  rough,  outspoken 
lines.  Lemoyne  was  commonly  neither  rough  nor  out 
spoken  ;  but  here  was  an  emergency,  involving  his  own 
interests,  which  must  be  dealt  with  decisively.  Cope 
seemed  to  feel  salvation  on  the  way.  Perhaps  that  was 
why  he  still  did  so  little  to  save  himself.  He  took 
the  new  room ;  he  had  one  meeting  with  Amy ;  and  he 
left  for  home  at  least  two  days  before  he  was  strictly 
entitled  to  do  so. 

The  meeting  took  place  in  Mrs.  Phillips'  drawing- 
room;  he  would  trust  himself  to  no  more  strolls  on 
the  campus,  to  no  more  confabs  in  college  halls.  There 
was  protection  in  numbers,  and  numbers  seldom  failed 
beneath  Medora  Phillips'  roof.  They  failed  this  time, 
however.  Mrs.  Phillips  and  Hortense  were  away  at 
a  reading ;  only  Amy  and  Carolyn  were  at  home.  Cope 
seized  on  Carolyn  as  at  a  straw.  He  thanked  her 
warmly  again  for  her  halting  offices  in  the  matter  of 
that  last  song,  and  he  begged  that  he  might  hear  some 
of  her  recent  verse.  His  appeal  was  vehement,  almost 
boisterous :  Carolyn,  surprised,  felt  that  he  was  ready 
at  last  to  grant  her  a  definite  personality. 

Amy  tried  in  vain  to  remove  Carolyn  from  the 
board.  But  Carolyn,  like  Hortense,  had  finally  joined 
the  ranks  of  the  "recognized";  she  was  determined 
(being  still  ignorant,  Cope  was  glad  to  see,  regarding 
Amy's  claims)  to  make  this  recognition  so  marked  as 
to  last  beyond  the  moment.  She  played  a  little — not 
well.  She  read.  She  even  accompanied  Amy  to  the 


COPE'S  DISTRESSFUL  CHRISTMAS       199 

door  at  the  close  of  Cope's  short  stay.  He  shook 
hands  with  them  both.  He  had  decided  that  he  would 
do  no  more  than  this  with  Amy,  in  any  event,  and 
Carolyn's  presence  made  his  predetermined  course 
easy,  even  obligatory.  Yet  he  went  out  into  the  night 
feeling,  somehow,  that  he  had  acted  solely  on  his  reso 
lution  and  that  he  might  consider  himself  a  man  of 
some  decisiveness,  after  all.  Amy  had  looked  disap 
pointed,  but  had  contrived  to  whisper  that  she  would 
write  from  Iowa.  That,  of  course,  was  to  be  looked 
for,  and  would  represent  the  combined  efforts  of  her 
self  and  her  home  circle ;  yet  he  had  a  fortnight  for 
consideration  and  counsel. 

Cope,  during  his  first  few  days  at  home,  was  moody 
and  abstracted:  his  parents  found  him  adding  little 
to  the  Christmas  cheer.  His  mother,  always  busy  over 
domestic  cares  and  now  busier  than  ever,  thought  that 
he  must  have  been  working  too  hard.  She  would  stand 
in  the  kitchen  door  with  a  half-trimmed  pie  on  one 
hand  and  ponder  him  as  he  sat  in  the  dining-room, 
staring  absorbedly  at  the  Franklin  stove.  His  father, 
who  saw  him  chiefly  in  the  evening,  by  the  gas-light 
of  the  old-fashioned  house,  found  his  face  slightly 
pinched:  was  his  pocket  pinched  too,  and  would  he 
be  likely,  before  leaving,  to  ask  help  toward  making 
up  a  deficit?  His  sister  Rosalys,  who  lived  a  life  of 
dry  routine,  figured  him  as  deep  in  love.  He  let  sev 
eral  days  pass  without  hinting  what  the  real  situation 
was. 

There  was  interest  all  round  when,  the  day  before 
Christmas,  the  postman  came  along  the  bleak  and 


200  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

flimsy  street  and  left  a  letter  for  him.  Cope  was  away 
from  the  house,  and  Rosalys,  studying  the  envelope's 
penmanship  and  even  its  postmark,  found  vague  con 
firmation  of  her  theory :  some  college  girl — one  of  his 
own  students,  probably — was  home  on  vacation  just 
as  he  was.  If  so,  a  "small  town"  person  of  caste  and 
character  like  themselves ;  not  brilliant,  but  safe.  She 
set  up  the  letter  edgewise  on  the  back  parlor  mantel 
piece. 

When  Cope  came  in  at  noon  and  saw  the  letter,  his 
face  fell.  He  put  it  in  his  pocket,  sat  silent  at  table, 
and  disappeared  as  soon  as  the  meal  was  over.  Rosa 
lys,  whose  pupils  were  off  her  mind  for  a  few  days 
and  who  had  thought  to  spare,  began  to  shade  her 
theory. 

Cope  read  the  letter  in  the  low-ceiled  back  bedroom 
(the  ceiling  sloped  away  on  one  side)  which  had  been 
his  for  so  many  years.  Those  years  of  happy  boy 
hood — how  far  away  they  seemed  now,  and  how  com 
pletely  past !  Surely  he  had  never  thought  to  come 
back  to  these  familiar  walls  to  such  effect  as  this. 
.  .  .  Well,  what  did  it  say? 

It  said,  in  its  four  pages  (yes,  Amy  had  really  lim 
ited  herself  thus),  how  joyous  she  was  that  the  dear 
Christmas  season  had  brought  her  such  a  beautiful 
love-gift ;  it  said  that  mother  was  so  pleased  and  happy 
— and  even  mentioned  a  sudden  aunt ;  it  said  how  will 
ingly  she  would  wait  on  until  .  .  . 

That  evening  Cope  made  his  announcement.  They 
were  all  seated  round  the  reading-lamp  in  the  back 
parlor,  where  the  old  Brussels  carpet  looked  dim  and 


COPE'S  DISTRESSFUL  CHRISTMAS       201 

where  only  venerated  age  kept  the  ornate  French  clock 
from  seeming  tawdry.  Cope  looked  down  at  the  car 
pet  and  up  at  the  clock,  and  spoke. 

Yes,  they  must  have  it. 

His  mother  took  the  shock  first  and  absorbed  most 
of  it.  She  led  a  humdrum  life  and  she  was  ready  to 
welcome  romance.  To  help  adjust  herself  she  laid 
her  hands,  with  a  soft,  sweeping  motion,  on  the  two 
brown  waves  that  drew  smoothly  across  her  temples, 
and  then  she  transferred  them  to  his,  held  his  head, 
and  gave  him  a  kiss.  Rosalys  took  his  two  hands 
warmly  and  smiled,  and  he  tried  to  smile  back.  His 
father  twisted  the  tip  of  his  short  gray  beard,  watched 
his  son's  mien,  and  said  little.  Day  after  to-morrow, 
with  the  major  part  of  their  small  Christmas  festivi 
ties  over,  he  would  ask  how  this  unexpected  and  unwar 
ranted  situation  had  come  about,  and  how,  in  heaven's 
name,  the  thing  was  to  be  carried  through:  by  what 
means,  with  whose  help?  ...  In  his  complex  of 
thought  the  word  "thesis"  came  to  his  tongue,  but 
he  kept  from  speaking  it.  He  had  been  advised  that 
his  son  had  at  last  struck  out  definitely  into  some 
bookish  bypath — just  what  bypath  mattered  little,  he 
gathered,  if  it  were  but  followed  to  the  end.  Yet  the 
end  was  still  far — and  the  boy  evidently  realized  this. 
He  was  glad  that  Bertram  was  sober  over  the  pros 
pect  and  over  his  present  plan — which  was  a  serious 
undertaking,  just  now,  in  truth. 

Cope  had  to  adjust  himself  to  all  this,  and  to  en 
dure,  besides,  the  congratulations — or  the  comments 
— of  a  number  of  tiresome  relatives ;  and  it  was  a  re- 


202  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

lief  when,  on  the  twenty-ninth,  Arthur  Lemoyne  finally 
arrived. 

Lemoyne  had  been  heralded  as  a  young  man  of 
parts,  and  as  the  son  of  a  family  which  enjoyed,  in 
Winnebago,  some  significant  share  of  worldly  pros 
perity,  and,  therefore,  of  social  consideration.  The 
simpler  Copes,  putting  him  in  the  other  back  bed 
room,  the  ceiling  of  which  sloped  the  opposite  way, 
wondered  if  they  were  quite  giving  him  his  just  dues. 
When  Rosalys  came  to  set  away  his  handbag  and  to 
rearrange,  next  morning,  his  brushes  on  the  top  of 
the  dresser,  she  gathered  from  various  indications  sup 
plied  by  his  outfit  that  the  front  chamber,  at  what 
ever  inconvenience  to  whomever,  would  have  been 
more  suitable.  But,  "Never  mind,"  said  her  mother; 
"they'll  do  very  well  as  they  are — side  by  side,  with 
the  door  conveniently  between.  Then  Bert  can  look 
after  him  a  little  more  and  we  a  little  less." 

Lemoyne  presented  himself  to  the  combined  family 
gaze  as  a  young  man  of  twenty-seven  or  so,  with  dark, 
limpid  eyes,  a  good  deal  of  dark,  wavy  hair,  and 
limbs  almost  too  plumply  well-turned.  In  his  hands 
the  flesh  minimized  the  prominence  of  joints  and 
knuckles,  and  the  fingers  (especially  the  little  fingers) 
displayed  certain  graceful,  slightly  affected  move 
ments  of  the  kind  which  may  cause  a  person  to  be 
credited — or  taxed — with  possessing  the  "artistic 
temperament."  To  end  with,  he  carried  two  inches  of 
short  black  stubble  under  his  nose.  He  was  a  type 
which  one  may  admire — or  not.  Rosalys  Cope  found 
in  him  a  sort  of  picturesque  allure.  Rather  liking  him 


COPE'S  DISTRESSFUL  CHRISTMAS       203 

herself,  she  found  a  different  reason  for  her  brother's 
liking.  "If  Bert  cares  for  him,"  she  remarked,  "I 
suppose  it's  largely  by  contrast — he's  so  spare  and 
light-colored  himself." 

It  was  evident  that,  on  this  first  meeting,  Lemoyne 
meant  to  ingratiate  himself — to  make  himself  attrac 
tive  and  entertaining.  He  had  determined  to  say 
a  thing  or  two  before  he  went  away,  and  it  would  be 
advantageous  to  consolidate  his  position. 

He  had  had  five  or  six  hours  of  cross-country 
travel,  with  some  tedious  waits  at  junctions,  and  at 
about  ten  o'clock,  after  some  showy  converse,  he  ac 
knowledged  himself  tired  enough  for  bed.  Cope  saw 
him  up,  and  did  not  come  down  again.  The  two  talked 
till  past  eleven ;  and  even  much  later,  when  light  sleep 
ers  in  other  parts  of  the  house  were  awake  for  a  few 
minutes,  muffled  sounds  from  the  same  two  voices 
reached  their  ears. 

But  Cope's  words,  many  as  they  were,  told  Lemoyne 
nothing  that  he  did  not  know,  little  that  he  had  not 
divined.  The  sum  of  all  was  this :  Cope  did  not  quite 
know  how  he  had  got  into  it ;  but  he  knew  that  he  was 
miserable  and  wanted  to  get  out  of  it. 

Lemoyne  had  asked,  first  of  all,  to  see  the  letter 
from  Iowa.  "Oh,  come,"  Cope  had  replied,  half-bash 
ful,  half-chivalrous,  "you  know  it  wasn't  written  for 
anybody  but  me." 

"The  substance  of  it,  then,"  Lemoyne  had  de 
manded;  and  Cope,  reluctant  and  shame-faced,  had 
given  it.  "You've  never  been  in  anything  of  this  sort, 
you  know,"  he  submitted. 


204  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

"I  should  say  not !"  Lemoyne  retorted.  "Nor  you, 
either.  You're  not  in  it  now, — or,  if  you  are,  you're 
soon  going  to  be  out  of  it.  You  would  help  me  through 
a  thing  like  this,  and  I'm  going  to  help  you." 

The  talk  went  on.  Lemoyne  presented  the  case 
for  a  broken  engagement.  Engagements,  as  it  was 
well  known  to  human  experience,  might,  if  quickly 
made,  be  as  quickly  unmade:  no  novelty  in  that.  "I 
had  never  expected  to  double  up  with  an  engaged 
man,"  Lemoyne  declared  further.  "Nothing  especially 
jolly  about  that — least  of  all  when  the  poor  wretch 
is  held  dead  against  his  will."  As  he  went  on,  he 
made  Cope  feel  that  he  had  violated  an  entente  of  long 
standing,  and  had  almost  brought  a  trusting  friend 
down  from  home  under  false  pretenses. 

But  phrases  from  Amy's  letter  continued  to  plague 
Cope.  There  was  a  confiding  trust,  a  tender  who- 
could-say-just-what?  .  .  . 

"Well,"  said  Lemoyne,  at  about  two  o'clock,  "let's 
put  it  off  till  morning.  Turn  over  and  go  to  sleep." 

But  before  he  fell  asleep  himself  he  resolved  that  he 
would  make  the  true  situation  clear  next  day.  He 
would  address  that  sympathetic  mother  and  that  ro 
mantic  sister  in  suitably  cogent  terms ;  the  father,  he 
felt  sure,  would  require  no  effort  and  would  even  wel 
come  his  aid  with  a  strong  sense  of  relief. 

So  next  day,  Lemoyne,  deploying  his  natural  graces 
and  his  dramatic  dexterities,  drew  away  the  curtain. 
He  did  not  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  Bertram  had  been 
tricked;  he  did  not  even  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  he 
had  been  inexpert:  he  contented  himself  with  saying 


COPE'S  DISTRESSFUL  CHRISTMAS       205 

that  his  friend  had  been  over-chivalrous  and  that  his 
fine  nature  had  rather  been  played  upon.  The  mother 
took  it  all  with  a  silent,  inexpressive  thought  fulness, 
though  it  was  felt  that  she  did  not  want  her  boy  to 
be  unhappy.  Rosalys,  if  she  admired  Lemoyne  a 
little  more,  now  liked  him  rather  less.  Her  father, 
when  the  declaration  reached  him  by  secondary  im 
pact,  did  feel  the  sense  of  relief  which  Lemoyne  had 
anticipated,  and  came  to  look  upon  him  as  an  able,  if 
somewhat  fantastic,  young  fellowr. 

Cope  himself,  when  his  father  questioned  him,  said 
with  frank  disconsolateness,  "I'm  miserable !"  And, 
"I  wish  to  heaven  I  were  out  of  it !"  he  added. 

"Get  out  of  it,"  his  father  counselled;  and  when 
Cope's  own  feelings  were  clearly  known  through  the 
household  there  was  no  voice  of  dissent.  "And  then 
buckle  down  for  your  degree,"  the  elder  added,  to 
finish. 

"If  I  only  could!"  exclaimed  Cope,  with  a  wan 
face, — convinced,  youthfully,  that  the  trouble  through 
which  he  was  now  striving  must  last  indefinitely.  "I 
should  be  glad  enough  to  get  my  mind  on  it,  I'm  sure." 

He  walked  away  to  reconstruct  a  devastated  priv 
acy.  "Arthur,  I'm  not  quite  sure  that  I  thank  you," 
he  said,  later. 

"H'm!"  replied  Lemoyne  non-committally.  "I 
hope,"  he  added,  more  definitely  articulate,  "that  we're 
going  to  have  a  pleasanter  life  in  our  new  quarters. 
I'm  getting  mighty  little  pleasure — if  you'll  just  un 
derstand  me — here !" 


CHAPTER  XXI 

COPE,  SAFEGUARDED,  CALLS  AGAIN 

IF  Cope  came  back  from  Freeford  with  the  moral 
support  of  one  family,  Amy  Leffingwell  came  back 
from  Fort  Lodge  with  the  moral  support  of  another. 
Hers  was  a  f ragmental  family,  true ;  but  its  sentiment 
was  unanimous;  she  had  the  combined  support  of  a 
pleased  mother  and  of  an  enthusiastic  maiden  aunt. 

Amy  reached  Churchton  first,  and  it  soon  trans 
pired  through  the  house  in  which  she  lived  that  she  was 
engaged  to  Bertram  Cope.  Cope,  returning  two  days 
later,  with  Lemoyne,  found  his  new  status  an  open 
book  to  the  world — or  to  such  a  small  corner  of  the 
world  as  cared  to  read. 

Cope  had  written  from  Freeford,  explaining  to  Ran 
dolph  the  broken  dinner-engagement:  at  least  he  had 
said  that  immediate  concerns  of  importance  had  driven 
the  date  from  his  mind,  and  that  he  was  sorry.  Ran 
dolph,  only  too  willing  to  accept  any  fair  excuse,  good- 
naturedly  made  this  one  serve:  the  boy  was  not  so 
negligent  and  ungrateful,  after  all.  He  got  the  rest 
of  the  story  a  few  days  later,  in  a  message  from  Fos 
ter.  What  was  the  boy,  then?  he  asked  himself.  He 
recalled  their  talk  as  they  had  walked  past  the  sand 
hills  on  that  October  Sunday.  Cope  had  disclaimed 
all  inclination  for  matrimony.  He  had  confessed  a 

206 


COPE,  SAFEGUARDED,  CALLS  AGAIN     207 

certain  inability  to  safeguard  himself.  Was  he  a  vic 
tim,  after  all?  A  victim  to  his  own  ineptitude?  A 
victim  to  his  own  highmindedness  ?  Well,  whatever 
the  alternative,  a  field  for  the  work  of  the  salvage- 
corps  had  opened. 

At  the  big  house  on  Ashburn  Avenue  a  like  feeling 
had  come  to  prevail.  Medora  Phillips  herself  had 
passed  from  the  indulgently  satirical  to  the  impatient, 
and  almost  to  the  indignant.  Her  niece  thought  the 
new  relation  clearly  superfluous.  She  put  away  the 
portrait  in  oil,  but  she  rather  hoped  to  resume  work 
on  it,  some  time.  Meanwhile,  she  was  far  from  kind 
to  Amy. 

Cope  soon  made  an  obligatory  appearance  at  the 
house.  He  was  glad  enough  to  have  the  presence  and 
the  support  of  Arthur  Lemoyne.  The  call  came  on 
a  rigorous  evening  at  the  beginning  of  the  second 
week  in  January.  The  two  young  men  had  about 
brought  their  new  quarters  to  shape  and  subjection. 
They  had  spent  two  or  three  evenings  in  shifting  and 
rearranging  things — trifling  purchases  in  person  and 
larger  things  sent  by  express.  They  had  reached  a 
good  degree  of  snugness  and  comfort ;  but 

"We've  got  to  go  to-night !"  said  Cope  firmly. 

"To-night?"  repeated  Lemoyne.  "Unless  I'm  mis 
taken,  we're  in  for  a  deuce  of  a  time."  He  snuggled 
again  into  the  big  easy  chair  that  had  just  arrived 
from  Winnebago. 

"We  are!"  returned  Cope,  with  unhappy  mien. 
"But  it's  got  to  be  gone  through  with." 

"I'm  talking  about  the  weather,"  rejoined  Lemoyne 


208  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

plumply.  He  was  versed  in  the  reading  of  signs  as 
they  presented  themselves  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles 
to  the  north,  and  he  thought  he  could  accurately  apply 
his  experience  to  a  locale  somewhat  beyond  his  earlier 
ken.  The  vast  open  welter  of  water  to  the  east  would 
but  give  the  roaring  north  wind  a  greater  impetus. 
"We're  going  to  have  to-night  the  storm  of  the  sea 
son." 

"Storm  or  no  storm,  I  can't  put  it  off  any  longer. 
I've  got  to  go." 

As  they  started  out  the  wind  was  keen,  and  a  few 
fine  flakes,  driven  from  the  north,  flew  athwart  their 
faces.  When  they  reached  Mrs.  Phillips'  house,  Peter, 
wrapped  in  furs,  was  sitting  in  the  limousine  by  the 
curb,  and  two  or  three  people  were  seen  in  the  open 
door  of  the  vestibule. 

"Well,  the  best  of  luck,  cher  Professeur"  Cope 
heard  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Phillips  saying,  in  a  quick 
expulsion  of  syllables.  "This  is  going  to  be  a  bad 
night,  I'm  afraid;  but  I  hope  your  audience  will  get 
to  the  hall  to  hear  you,  and  that  our  Pierre  will  be 
able  to  get  you  back  to  us." 

"Oh,  Madame,"  returned  the  plump  little  man, 
"what  a  climate!"  And  he  ran  down  the  walk  to  the 
car. 

Yes,  Mrs.  Phillips  had  another  celebrity  on  her 
hands.  It  was  an  eminent  French  historian  who  was 
going  across  to  the  campus  to  deliver  the  second 
lecture  of  his  course.  "How  lucky,"  she  had  said  to 
Hortense,  just  after  dinner,  "that  we  went  to  hear 
him  last  night!"  Their  visitor  was  handsomely  ac- 


COPE,  SAFEGUARDED,  CALLS  AGAIN     209 

commodated — and  suitably,  too,  she  felt — in  the  Louis 
Quinze  chamber,  and  he  was  expected  back  in  it  a  little 
after  ten. 

"Why,  Bertram  Cope!"  she  exclaimed,  as  the  two 
young  men  came  up  the  walk  while  the  great  historian 
ran  down ;  "come  in,  come  in ;  don't  let  me  stand  here 
freezing !" 

It  turned  out  to  be  a  young  man's  night.  Mrs. 
Phillips  had  invited  a  few  "types"  to  entertain  and 
instruct  her  Frenchman.  They  had  come  to  dinner, 
and  they  had  stayed  on  afterward. 

Among  them  was  the  autumn  undergraduate  whom 
Cope,  at  an  earlier  day,  had  disdainfully  called 
"Phaon,"  a  youth  of  twenty.  "You  know,"  said  Me- 
dora  Phillips  to  Randolph,  a  few  days  later,  when  re 
viewing  the  stay  of  her  newest  guest,  "those  sophisti 
cated,  world-worn  people  so  appreciate  our  fresh, 
innocent,  ingenuous  boys.  M.  Pelouse  told  me,  on 
leaving,  that  Roddy  quite  met  his  ideal  of  the  young 
American.  So  open-faced,  so  inexperienced,  so  out 
of  the  great  world  .  .  ." 

"Good  heavens !"  said  Randolph  impatiently.  "Do 
they  constitute  the  world?  You  might  think  so, — 
going  about  giving  us  awards,  and  hanging  medals 
on  us,  and  certifying  how  well  we  speak  French! 
Fudge !  The  world  is  changing.  It  would  be  better," 
he  added,  "if  more  of  us — college  students  included — 
learned  how  to  speak  a  decenter  English.  I  went  to 
their  dramatic  club  the  other  evening.  Such  pro 
nunciation  !  Such  delivery !  I  almost  longed  for  the 
films." 


210  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

A  second  "young  American"  was  present — George 
F.  Pearson.  Pearson  lived  with  his  parents  in  another 
big  house  a  block  down  the  street.  Mrs.  Phillips  had 
summoned  him  as  a  type  that  was  purely  indigenous 
— the  "young  American  business  man."  Pearson  had 
just  made  a  "kill,"  as  he  called  it — a  coup  executed 
quite  without  the  aid  of  his  father,  and  he  was  too  full 
of  his  success  to  keep  still ;  he  was  more  typical  than 
ever.  The  Professor  had  looked  at  him  in  staring 
wonder.  So  had  Amy  Leffingwell — in  the  absence  of 
another  target  for  her  large,  intent  eyes. 

But  Medora  Phillips  knew  all  about  George  and 
Roddy.  The  novelty  was  Lemoyne,  and  she  must 
learn  about  him.  She  readily  seized  the  points  that 
composed  his  personal  aspect,  which  she  found  good: 
his  general  darkness  and  richness  made  him  a  fine  foil 
for  Cope.  She  quickly  credited  him  with  a  pretty 
complete  battery  of  artistic  aptitudes  and  apprehen 
sions.  She  felt  certain  that  he  would  appreciate  her 
ballroom  and  picture-gallery,  and  would  figure  well 
within  it.  The  company  was  young,  the  night  was 
wild,  and  cheer  was  the  word.  She  presently  led  the 
way  upstairs.  Foster,  as  soon  as  he  heard  the  first 
voices  in  the  hall  and  the  first  footfalls  on  the  bare 
treads  of  the  upper  stairs,  shut  his  door. 

Lemoyne  felt  the  big  bare  room — bare  save  for  a 
piano  and  a  fringe  of  chairs  and  settles,  large  and 
small — as  a  stage;  and  he  surmised  that  he,  the  new 
comer,  was  expected  to  exhibit  himself  on  it.  He 
became  consciously  the  actor.  He  tried  now  the  asser 
tive  note,  and  now  the  quiet  note;  somehow  the  quiet 


COPE,  SAFEGUARDED,  CALLS  AGAIN     211 

was  the  louder  of  the  two.  Pearson,  who  was  in  a  con 
quering  mood  tonight,  scented  a  rival  in  the  general 
attention,  and  one  not  wholly  unworthy.  Pearson  was 
the  only  one  of  the  four  in  evening  dress,  and  he  felt 
that  to  be  an  advantage.  He,  at  least,  had  been  prop 
erly  attired  to  meet  the  elegant  visitor  from  abroad. 
As  for  poor  Roddy,  he  had  come  in  an  ordinary  sack : 
perhaps  it  was  partly  this  which  had  prompted  M. 
Pelouse  (who  was  of  course  dressed  for  the  platform) 
to  find  the  boy  such  a  paragon  of  simple  innocence. 

All  costumes  were  alike  to  Lemoyne;  he  had  ap 
peared  in  dozens.  If  he  lacked  costume  now,  he 
made  it  up  in  manner.  He  had  bestowed  an  immensity 
of  manner  on  Amy  Leffingwell,  downstairs :  his  cue  had 
been  a  high,  delicate,  remote  gravity.  "I  know,  I 
know,"  he  seemed  to  say;  "and  I  make  no  comment." 
Upstairs  he  kept  close  by  Cope :  he  was  proprietary ; 
he  was  protective.  If  Cope  settled  down  in  a  large 
chair,  Lemoyne  would  drape  himself  over  the  arm  of 
it ;  and  his  hand  would  fall,  as  like  as  not,  on  the  back 
of  the  chair,  or  even  on  Cope's  shoulder.  And  when 
he  came  to  occupy  the  piano-stool,  Cope,  standing 
alongside,  would  lay  a  hand  on  his.  Mrs.  Phillips 
noticed  these  minor  familiarities  and  remarked  on 
them  to  Foster,  who  had  lately  wheeled  his  chair  in. 
Foster,  a  few  days  later,  passed  the  comment  on  to 
Randolph,  with  an  astringent  comment  of  his  own. — 
At  all  events,  Amy  Leffingwell  remained  in  the  dis 
tance,  and  George  Pearson  shared  the  distance  with 
her. 

Foster  had  broken  from  his  retirement  on  hearing 


212  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

the  voices  of  Cope  and  Lemoyne  combined  in  song. 
The  song  was  "Larboard  Watch,"  and  he  remembered 
how  his  half-brother  had  sung  in  it  during  court 
ship,  with  the  young  fellow  who  had  acted,  later,  as  his 
best  man.  Lemoyne,  at  the  first  word  of  invitation, 
had  seated  himself  at  the  instrument — a  lesser  than 
the  "grand"  downstairs,  but  not  unworthy ;  then,  with 
but  a  measure  or  so  of  prelude,  the  two  voices  had 
begun  to  ring  out  in  the  old  nautical  ballad.  Lemoyne 
felt  the  composition  to  be  primitive,  antiquated  and 
of  slight  value ;  but  he  had  received  his  cue,  and  both 
his  throat  and  his  hands  wrought  with  an  elaborate 
expressiveness.  He  sang  and  played,  if  not  with  sin 
cerity,  at  least  with  effect.  His  voice  was  a  high, 
ringing  tenor;  not  too  ringing  for  Cope's  resonant 
baritone,  but  almost  too  sweet:  a  voice  which  might 
cloy  (if  used  alone)  within  a  few  moments.  Cope  was 
a  perfect  second,  and  the  two  went  at  it  with  a  com 
plete  unity  of  understanding  and  of  sentiment.  To 
gether  they  viewed — in  thirds — "the  gathering 
clouds";  together— still  in  thirds — they  roused  them 
selves  "at  the  welcome  call"  of  "Larboard  watch, 
ahoy!"  Disregarding  the  mere  words,  they  attained, 
at  the  finish,  to  something  like  feeling — or  even  like  a 
touch  of  passion.  Medora  Phillips  had  never  heard 
Cope  sing  like  that  before;  had  never  seen  so  much 
animation  in  his  singing  face.  By  the  fourth  bar  there 
had  been  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  there  was  a  catch 
in  her  breath  when  she  exclaimed  softly,  "You  dear 
boys !"  It  was  too  soon,  of  course,  to  make  Lemoyne 
"dear" — the  one  boy  was  Cope.  It  was  really  his 


COPE,  SAFEGUARDED,  CALLS  AGAIN     213 

voice  which  she  had  heard  through  the  soaring,  in 
sinuating  tones  of  the  other.  Foster,  sitting  beside 
her,  suddenly  raised  his  shade  and  peered  out  ques- 
tioningly,  both  at  the  singers  and  at  his  sister-in-law. 
He  seemed  surprised — and  more. 

Pearson  was  surprised  too,  but  kept  his  applause 
within  limits.  However,  he  praised  Lemoyne  for  his 
accompaniment.  Then  he  begged  Amy  for  an  air  on 
the  violin ;  and  while  they  were  determining  who  should 
play  her  accompaniment,  the  wind  raged  more  wildly 
round  the  gables  and  the  thickening  snow  drove  with 
a  fiercer  impetus  against  the  windows. 

Lemoyne  (who  was  a  perfectly  good  sight-reader) 
begged  that  he  might  not  be  condemned  to  spoil  an 
other's  performance.  This  was  the  result  of  an  un 
derstanding  between  Cope  and  himself  that  neither 
was  to  contribute  further.  Presently  a  simple  piece 
was  selected  through  which  the  unskilled  Carolyn 
might  be  trusted  to  pick  her  way.  Cope  listened  with 
a  decorous  attention  which  was  designed  to  indicate 
the  highest  degree  of  sympathetic  interest;  but  his 
attitude,  so  finely  composed  within,  yet  so  ineffectively 
displayed  without,  was  as  nothing  to  the  loud  prompt 
ness  of  Pearson's  praise.  Amy  glanced  at  Cope  with 
questioning  surprise;  but  she  met  Pearson's  excesses 
of  commendation  with  a  gratified  smile. 

Shortly  before  ten  o'clock  there  was  a  stir  at  the 
front  door.  Mrs.  Phillips  rose  hastily.  "It  is  M. 
Pelouse ;  let  me  go  down  and  get  him." 

Yes,  it  was  M.  Pelouse.  "Oh,  Madame!"  he  said, 
as  before,  but  with  an  expressiveness  doubly  charged, 


211  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

"what  a  climate!"  He  was  panting  and  was  covered 
with  fine  snow.  Behind  him  was  Peter,  looking  very 
grave  and  dour. 

"Shall  I  be  wanted  further?"  asked  Peter  in  a  tense 
tone,  and  with  no  trace  of  his  usual  good-natured 
smile. 

"What!  Again?"  cried  Mrs.  Phillips,  while  Helga, 
farther  up  the  hall,  was  undoing  the  Professor ;  "three 
times  on  a  night  like  this?  No,  indeed !  Get  back  into 
the  garage  as  fast  as  you  can." 

"Oh,  Madame !"  said  the  Professor,  now  out  of  his 
wrappings  and  in  better  control  of  his  voice.  "They 
were  so  faithful  to  our  beautiful  France!  The  salle 
was  almost  full!" 

4*Well,"  said  Mrs.  Phillips  to  herself,  "they  got 
there  all  right,  then.  I  hope  most  of  them  will  get 
back  home  alive!" 

"What  a  climate!"  M.  Pelouse  was  still  saying,  as 
he  entered  the  ballroom.  He  had  not  been  there  be 
fore.  He  ran  an  appraising  eye  over  the  pictures 
and  said  little.  But  as  soon  as  he  learned  that  some 
of  them  were  the  work  of  the  late  M.  Phillips  he  found 
words.  He  led  the  company  through  a  tasteful  jungle 
of  verbosity,  and  left  the  ultimate  impression  that 
Monsieur  had  been  a  remarkable  man,  whether  as 
artist  or  as  collector. 

Yet  he  did  not  forget  to  say  once  more,  "What  a 
climate!" 

"Is  it  really  bad  outside?"  asked  Pearson.  M.  Pe 
louse  shrugged  his  shoulders.  It  was  affreux. 

"It  is  indeed,"  corroborated  Mrs.  Phillips :  she  had 


COPE,  SAFEGUARDED,  CALLS  AGAIN     215 

spent  her  moment  at  the  front  door.  "Nobody  that 
I  can  find  room  for  leaves  my  house  tonight."  This 
meant  that  Cope  and  Lemoyne  were  to  occupy  the 
chintz  chamber. 

M.  Pelouse  gradually  regained  himself.  Cope  in 
terested  him.  Cope  was,  in  type,  the  more  "American" 
of  the  two  new  arrivals.  He  was  also,  as  M.  Pelouse 
had  heard,  the  pretendant, — yes,  the  fiance.  Well,  he 
was  calm  and  inexpressive  enough :  no  close  and  eager 
attendance;  cool,  cool.  "How  interesting,"  said  the 
observer  to  himself.  "And  Mademoiselle,  quite  across 
the  room,  and  quite  taken  up" — happily,  too,  it  seemed 

— "with  another  man:  with  the  other  man,  perhaps? 
» 

At  half  past  ten  Pearson  rose  to  leave;  Cope  and 
I/emoyne  rose  at  the  same  time.  "No,"  said  Mrs. 
Phillips,  stopping  them  both;  "you  mustn't  think  of 
trying  to  go.  I  can't  ask  Peter  to  take  you,  and  you 
could  never  get  across  on  foot  in  the  world.  I  can 
find  a  place  for  you." 

"And  about  poor  Roddy?"  asked  Hortense. 

"Roddy  may  stay  with  me,"  declared  Pearson.  "I 
can  put  him  up.  Come  on,  Aldridge,"  he  said ;  "you're 
good  for  a  hundred  yard  dash."  And  down  they 
started. 

"I  don't  want  to  stay,"  muttered  Cope  to  Lemoyne, 
under  cover  of  the  others'  departure.  "Devil  take 
it ;  it's  the  last  thing  in  the  world  I  want  to  do !" 

"It's  awkward,"  returned  Lemoyne,  "but  we're  in 
for  it.  After  all,  it  isn't  her  house,  nor  her  family's. 
Besides,  you've  got  me." 


216  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

Mrs.  Phillips  summoned  Helga  and  another  maid, 
who  were  just  on  the  point  of  going  to  bed,  and 
directed  their  efforts  toward  the  chintz  chamber.  "Ah, 
well,"  thought  M.  Pelouse,  "the  fiance,  then,  is  going 
to  remain  over  night  in  the  house  of  his  fiancee!"  It 
was  droll;  yet  there  were  extenuating  circumstances. 
But — such  a  singular  climate,  such  curious  tempera 
ments,  such  a  general  chill !  And  M.  Pelouse  was  pres 
ently  lost  to  view  among  the  welcome  trappings  of 
Louis  Quinze. 


CHAPTER  XXII 
COPE  SHALL  BE  RESCUED 

NEXT  morning  Cope  left  the  house  before  breakfast. 
He  had  had  the  forethought  to  plead  an  exceptionally 
early  engagement,  and  thus  he  avoided  meeting,  after 
the  strain  of  the  evening  before,  any  of  the  various 
units  of  the  household.  He  and  Lemoyne,  draping 
their  parti-colored  pajamas  over  the  foot  of  the  bed 
stead,  left  the  chintz  chamber  at  seven  and  walked 
out  into  the  new  day.  The  air  was  cold  and  tingling; 
the  ground  was  white  as  a  sheet;  the  sky  was  a  stri 
dent,  implacable  blue.  The  glitter  and  the  glare  as 
saulted  their  sleepy  eyes.  They  turned  up  their 
collars,  thrust  their  hands  deep  into  their  pockets, 
and  took  briskly  the  half  mile  which  led  to  their  own 
percolator  and  electric  toaster. 

Cope  threw  himself  down  on  the  bed  and  let  Lemoyne 
get  the  breakfast.  Well,  he  had  called;  he  had  done 
the  just  and  expected  thing;  he  had  held  his  face 
through  it  all ;  but  he  was  tired  after  a  night  of  much 
thought  and  little  sleep.  Possibly  he  might  not  have 
to  call  again  for  a  full  week.  If  'phone  messages  or 
letters  came,  he  would  take  them  as  best  he  could. 

Nor  was  Lemoyne  very  alert.  He  was  less  prompt 
than  usual  in  gaining  his  early  morning  loquacity. 
His  coffee  was  lacking  in  spirit,  and  much  of  his  toast 

217 


218  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

was  burnt.  But  the  two  revived,  in  fair  measure, 
after  their  taxing  walk. 

They  had  talked  through  much  of  the  dead  middle 
of  the  night.  Foster,  wakeful  and  restless,  had  be 
come  exasperated  beyond  all  power  of  a  return  to  sleep. 
Concerns  of  youth  and  love  kept  them  murmuring, 
murmuring  in  the  acute  if  distant  ears  of  one  whom 
youth  had  left  and  for  whom  love  was  impossible.  Be 
yond  his  foolish,  figured  wall  were  two  contrasted 
types  of  young  vigor,  and  they  babbled,  babbled  on, 
in  the  sensitized  hearing  of  one  from  whom  vigor  was 
gone  and  for  whom  hope  was  set. 

"What  do  you  think  of  her?"  Cope  had  asked. 
Then  he  had  thrown  his  face  into  his  pillow  and  left 
one  ear  for  the  reply. 

"She  is  a  clinger,"  returned  Lemoyne.  "She  will 
cling  until  she  is  loosened  by  something  or  somebody. 
Then  she  will  cling  to  the  second  somebody  as  hard 
as  she  did  to  the  first.  I'm  not  so  sure  that  it's  you 
as  an  individual  especially." 

Cope  had  now  no  self-love  to  consider,  no  self- 
esteem  to  guard.  He  did  not  raise  his  face  from  out 
the  pillow  to  reply. 

But  he  found  Lemoyne  rather  drastic.  Arthur  had 
shown  himself  much  in  earnest,  of  course;  he  had  the 
right,  doubtless,  to  be  reproachful;  and  he  was  fer 
tile  in  suggestions  looking  toward  his  friend's  free 
dom.  Yet  his  expedients  were  not  always  delicate  or 
fair:  Cope  would  have  welcomed  a  lighter  hand  on  his 
exacerbated  spirit,  a  more  disinterested,  more  im 
partial  touch.  He  was  glad  when,  one  afternoon  at 


COPE  SHALL  BE  RESCUED  219 

five,  a  few  days  later,  he  met  Randolph  on  the  steps 
of  the  library.  Randolph,  by  his  estimate,  was  dis 
interested  and  impartial. 

The  weather  still  held  cold :  it  was  no  day  for  spend 
ing  time,  conversationally,  outside;  and  they  stepped 
back  for  a  little  into  a  recess  of  the  vestibule.  Cope 
found  an  opening  by  bolstering  up  his  previous  writ 
ten  excuses.  He  was  still  very  general. 

"That's  all  right,"  replied  Randolph,  in  friendly 
fashion.  "Some  time,  soon,  we  must  try  again.  And 
this  time  we  must  have  your  friend."  His  glance  was 
kind,  yet  keen ;  nor  was  it  brief. 

Randolph  had  already  the  outlines  of  the  situation 
as  Foster  understood  them.  He  sometimes  slipped 
in,  on  Sunday  forenoon,  to  read  the  newspapers  to 
Foster,  instead  of  going  to  church.  Hortense  and 
Carolyn  came  up  now  and  then:  indeed,  this  reading 
was,  theoretically,  a  part  of  Carolyn's  duties,  but  she 
was  coming  less  and  less  frequently,  and  often  never 
got  beyond  the  headlines.  So  that,  every  other  Sun 
day  at  least,  Randolph  set  aside  prayer-book  and 
hymnal  for  dramatic  criticisms,  editorials,  sports  and 
"society." 

This  time  Foster  was  full  of  the  events  of  Friday 
night.  "As  I  make  it  out,  he  kept  away  from  her  the 
whole  evening,  and  that  new  man  helped  him  do  it. 
Our  friend  down  the  street,  Hortense  says,  showed 
every  disposition  to  cut  in,  and  the  girl  showed  at 
least  some  disposition  to  let  him.  I  don't  wonder: 
when  you  come  right  down  to  it,  he's  twice  the  man 
the  other  is." 


220  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

"Young  Pearson?" 

"Yes." 

"Clever  lad.  Confident.  But  brash.  Just  what  his 
father  used  to  be." 

"He  praised  her  playing.  Cope  sat  dumb.  And 
next  morning  he  hurried  away  before  breakfast.  You 
know  what  kind  of  a  morning  it  was.  Anything  very 
pressing  at  the  University  on  a  Saturday  morning  at 
eight?" 

"I  hardly  know." 

"How  about  this  sudden  new  friend?"  Foster 
twitched  in  his  chair.  "Medora,"  he  went  on,  "seems  to 
have  no  special  fancy  for  him.  She  even  objects  to 
his  calling  Cope  'Bert.'  Of  course  he  sings.  And 
he  seems  to  be  self-possessed  and  clever.  But  'self- 
possessed' — that  doesn't  express  it.  He  was  so  aw 
fully,  so  publicly,  at  home ;  at  least  that's  as  I  gather 
it.  Always  hanging  over  the  other  man's  chair; 

always  finding  a  reason  to  put  his  hand  on  his  shoulder 
» 

"Body-guard?  No  wonder  Pearson  came  to  the 
fore." 

"I  don't  know.  What  I've  heard  makes  me  think 
of " 

And  here,  Foster,  speaking  with  a  keen  and  com 
plicated  acerbity,  recalled  how,  during  earlier  years 
of  travel,  he  had  had  opportunity  to  observe  a  young 
married  couple  at  a  Saratoga  hotel.  They  had  made 
their  partiality  too  public,  and  an  elderly  lady  not 
far  away  in  the  vast  "parlor"  had  audibly  complained 


COPE  SHALL  BE  RESCUED  221 

that  they  brought  the  manners   of  the  bed-chamber 
into  the  drawing-room. 

"They  talked  half  through  the  night,  too,"  Foster 
added  bitterly. 

"Young  men's  problems,"  said  Randolph.  "Pos 
sibly  they  were  considering  Pearson." 

"Possibly,"  repeated  Foster;  and  neither  followed 
further,  for  a  moment,  the  pathway  of  surmise. 

Presently  Randolph  rose  and  scuffled  through  the 
ruck  of  newspapers,  with  which  no  great  progress  had 
been  made.  "Is  Medora  at  home?"  he  asked. 

"I  think  she's  off  at  church,"  said  Foster  discon 
tentedly.  "And  Hortense  went  with  her." 

"I'll  call  her  up  later.  If  I  can  get  her  for  Wed 
nesday — and  Pearson  too  .  .  ." 

Foster,  accustomed  to  piecing  loose  ends  as  well 
as  he  could,  did  not  ask  him  to  finish.  Randolph 
picked  up  a  crumpled  sheet  from  the  floor,  reseated 
himself,  and  read  out  the  account  of  yesterday's 
double  performance  at  the  opera. 

When  Randolph,  then,  met  Cope  in  the  vestibule 
of  the  library,  on  Monday,  he  felt  that  he  had  ground 
under  his  feet.  Just  how  solid,  just  how  extensive, 
he  was  not  quite  sure;  but  he  could  safely  take  a  few 
steps  experimentally.  Cope  was  a  picture  of  uncer 
tainty  and  woe ;  his  face  was  an  open  bid  for  sympathy 
and  aid. 

"You  are  unhappy,"  said  Randolph;  "and  I  think 
I  know  why."  He  meant  to  advance  toward  the  prob 
lem  as  if  it  were  a  case  of  jealousy — a  matter  of  Pear- 


222  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

&on's   intrusion   and  of  Amy's   seemingly   willing  ac 
ceptance  of  it. 

Cope  soon  caught  Randolph's  idea,  and  he  stared. 
He  did  not  at  all  resent  Randolph's  advances;  mis 
apprehension,  in  fact,  might  serve  as  fairly,  in  the 
end,  as  the  clearest  understanding. 

Randolph  placed  his  hand  on  Cope's  shoulder.  "You 
have  only  to  assert  yourself,"  he  said.  "The  other 
man  is  an  intruder;  it  would  be  easy  to  warn  him  off 
before  he  starts  in  to  win  her." 

"George  Pearson?"  said  Cope.  "Win  her?  In 
heaven's  name,"  he  blurted  out,  "let  him!" 

It  was  a  cry  of  distaste  and  despair,  in  which  no 
rival  was  concerned.  Randolph  now  had  the  situa 
tion  in  its  real  lines. 

"Well,  this  is  no  place  for  a  talk,"  he  said.  "If  you 
should  care  to  happen  in  on  me  some  evening  before 
long  .  .  .» 

"I  have  Wednesday,"  returned  Cope,  with  eager 
ness. 

"Not  Wednesday.  I  have  an  engagement  for  that 
evening.  But  any  evening  a  little  later." 

"Friday?  The  worst  of  my  week's  work  is  over  by 
then." 

"Friday  will  do."     And  they  parted. 

Randolph  had  secured  for  his  Wednesday  evening 
Medora  Phillips  and  Hortense.  Hortense  was  the 
young  person  to  pair  with  Pearson,  who  had  thrown 
over  an  evening  at  his  club  for  the  dinner  with  Ran 
dolph.  The  talk  was  to  be — in  sections  and  instal 
ments — of  Amy  Leffingwell,  and  of  Cope  in  so  far  as 


COPE  SHALL  BE  RESCUED  223 

he  might  enter.  Medora  would  speak ;  Hortense  would 
speak;  Randolph  himself  should  speak.  To  complete 
the  party  he  had  asked  his  relations  from  the  far  side 
of  the  big  city.  His  sister  would  preside  for  him; 
and  his  brother-in-law  might  justify  his  expenditure 
of  time  and  trouble  by  stopping  off  in  advance  for  a 
brief  confab,  as  trustee,  at  the  administration  build 
ing,  with  the  president.  A  compatriot  had  been  se 
cured  by  Sing-Lo  to  help  in  dining-room  and  kitchen. 

Randolph  had  planned  a  short  dinner.  His  sister, 
facing  the  long  return-drive,  would  doubtless  be  willing 
to  leave  by  nine-thirty.  Then,  with  two  extraneous 
pieces  removed  from  the  board,  the  real  matter  in 
hand  might  be  got  under  way. 

Mrs.  Phillips  was  most  lively  from  the  start.  She 
praised  the  house,  which  she  was  seeing  for  the  first 
time.  She  extolled  Sing-Lo's  department,  and  Sing- 
Lo,  who  delighted  in  entertainments,  was  one  broad 
smile.  She  had  a  word  of  encouragement  for  his 
less  smiling  helper,  whom  she  informally  christened 
Sing-Hi ;  and  she  chatted  endlessly  with  Mrs.  Brackett 
—perhaps  even  helped  tire  her  out.  Yes,  George 
Pearson  was  to  be  urged  forward  for  the  rescue  of 
Bertram  Cope. 

Pearson  spoke  up  loud  and  clear  among  the  males. 
He  was  a  business-man  among  business-men,  and  dur 
ing  the  very  few  moments  formally  allowed  for  the 
cigars  he  made  himself,  as  he  felt,  tell.  And  after  the 
Bracketts  left — at  nine  twenty-five — he  was  easily 
content  to  stay  on  for  three-quarters  of  an  hour 
longer. 


224  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

At  nine-forty  Pearson  was  saying,  amidst  the  ciga 
rette-smoke  of  the  den: 

"Does  she  expect  to  teach  the  violin  all  her  life?" 

He  was  both  ironical  and  impatient.  Clearly  a 
charming,  delicate  creature  like  Amy  Leffingwell  might 
better  decorate  the  domestic  scene  of  some  gentle 
man  who  enjoyed  position  and  prosperity. 

"I  hope  not,  indeed,"  said  Hortense,  in  a  deep  con 
tralto. 

Pearson  cast  on  Hortense  a  look  which  rewarded 
such  discernment. 

"Of  course  he  has  nothing,  now,"  said  Randolph, 
with  deliberation.  "And  he  may  be  nothing  but  a  poor, 
underpaid  professor  all  his  life." 

"No  ring — yet,"  said  Hortense,  further.  Her  "yet" 
meant  "not  even  yet."  Her  deep  tone  was  plausibly 
indignant. 

"I'm  rather  glad  of  that,"  remarked  Mrs.  Phillips, 
with  an  eye  pretendedly  fixed  on  the  Mexican  dolls. 
"I  can't  feel  that  they  are  altogether  suited  to  each 
other." 

"He  doesn't  care  for  her,"  pursued  Hortense. 

"Does  she  really  care  for  him?"  asked  Pearson. 

No  answer.  One  pair  of  eyes  sought  the  floor ;  an 
other  searched  the  ceiling;  a  third  became  altogether 
subordinate  to  questioning,  high-held  brows. 

Pearson  glanced  from  one  face  to  another.  The 
doubt  as  to  her  "caring"  seemed  universal.  The  doubt 
that  she  cared  deeply,  essentially,  was  one  that  he 
had  brought  away  from  the  ballroom.  And  he  went 
home,  at  ten  twenty-three,  pretty  well  determined  that 


COPE  SHALL  BE  RESCUED  225 

he  would  very  soon  try  to  change  doubt  to  certainty. 
"Thank  you  so  much,"  said  Mrs.  Phillips  to  Ran 
dolph,  as  he  went  out  with  her  and  Hortense  to  put 
them  in  the  car.  "I'm  sure  we  don't  want  him  to  be 
burdened  and  miserable ;  and  I'm  sure  we  all  do  want 
her  to  be  happy.  George  is  a  lovely,  capable  chap, — 
and,  really,  he  has  quite  a  way." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
COPE  REGAINS  HIS  FREEDOM 

ON  Friday  evening  Randolph,  at  home,  was  glancing 
now  and  then  at  the  clock  (as  on  a  previous  occasion), 
while  waiting  for  Cope.  At  eight-fifteen  the  telephone 
rang;  it  was  Cope,  with  excuses,  as  before.  He  was 
afraid  he  should  be  unable  to  come;  some  unexpected 
work  ...  It  was  that  autumn  excursion  all  over 
again. 

Randolph  hung  up  the  receiver,  with  some  impa 
tience.  Still,  never  mind  ;  if  Cope  would  make,  no  effort 
to  save  himself,  others  were  making  the  effort  for  him. 
He  had  considerable  confidence  in  George  Pearson's 
state  of  mind,  as  well  as  in  George's  egoism  and  drive. 

Foster  heard  of  Cope's  new  delinquency,  through 
Randolph's  own  reluctant  admission.  "He  is  an  in- 
grate,  after  all,"  said  Foster  savagely,  and  gave  his 
wheels  an  exceptionally  violent  jerk.  And  Randolph 
made  little  effort,  this  time,  toward  Cope's  defense. 

"You've  done  so  much  for  him,"  Foster  went  on; 
"and  you're  willing  to  do  so  much  more." 

"I  could  do  a  great  deal,  of  course.  There  may  be 
a  good  reason  this  time,  too,"  said  Randolph  soberly. 

"Humph !"  returned  Foster. 

Cope  had  hung  up  the  receiver  to  turn  toward 
Lcmoyne  and  to  say: 

226 


COPE  REGAINS  HIS  FREEDOM  227 

"I  really  ought  to  have  gone." 

"Wait  until  I  can  go  with  you,"  Lemoyne  insisted, 
as  he  had  been  insisting  just  before.  The  still  unseen 
man  of  Indian  Rock  was  again  the  subject  of  his  cal 
culations. 

"You've  been  asked,"  Cope  submitted.  "He  has 
been  very  friendly  to  me,  and  I  am  sure  he  would  be 
the  same  to  you." 

"I  think  that,  personally,  I  can  get  along  without 
him,"  the  other  muttered  ungraciously  to  himself. 

Aloud  he  said:  "As  I've  told  you,  I've  got  the 
president  of  the  dramatic  club  to  see  tonight,  and 
it's  high  time  that  I  was  leaving."  He  looked  with 
intention  at  the  desk  which  had  superseded  that  old 
table,  with  ink-stained  cover,  at  which  Cope  had  once 
worked.  "You  can  use  a  little  time  to  advantage  over 
those  themes.  I'll  be  back  within  an  hour." 

Lemoyne  had  entered  for  Psychology,  and  was  hop 
ing  that  he  now  enjoyed  the  status  necessary  for  par 
ticipation  in  the  college  theatricals.  But  he  was  rely 
ing  still  more  on  a  sudden  defection  or  lapse  which 
had  left  the  dramatic  club  without  a  necessary  actor 
at  a  critical  time.  "It's  me,  or  postponement,"  he 
said;  "and  I  think  it's  me."  The  new  opportunity 
— or  bare  chance — loomed  before  him  with  immensity. 
Cope's  affair  might  wait.  He  would  even  risk  Cope's 
running  over  to  Randolph's  place  alone. 

Cope  seated  himself  at  his  desk  with  loyalty,  or  at 
least  with  docility;  and  Lemoyne,  putting  on  his  hat 
and  coat,  started  out  for  the  fraternity  house  where 
the  president  of  the  club  was  in  residence. 


228  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

Five  minutes  after  Lemoyne's  departure  Cope  heard 
the  telephone  ringing  downstairs,  ant  presently  a 
patient,  middle-aged  man  knocked  at  t}*  door  and 
told  him  the  call  was  for  him. 

Cope  sighed  apprehensively  and  went  down.  Of 
course  it  was  Amy.  Would  he  not  come  over  for  an 
hour?  Everybody  was  away,  and  they  could  have  a 
quiet  talk  together. 

Cope,  conscious  of  others  in  the  house,  replied  cau 
tiously.  Lemoyne,  he  said,  had  gone  out  and  left  him 
with  a  deskful  of  themes:  tiresome  routine  work,  but 
necessary,  and  immensely  absorptive  of  time.  He  was 
afraid  that  he  could  scarcely  come  this  evening 

Amy's  voice  took  on  a  new  tone.  Why,  she  seemed 
to  be  feeling,  must  Arthur  Lemoyne  be  mentioned,  and 
mentioned  so  early?  Yet  Bertram  had  put  him — in 
stinctively,  unconsciously — at  the  head  of  the  little 
verbal  procession  just  begun. 

Cope's  response  was  dry  and  meagre;  free  speech 
was  impossible  over  a  lodging-house  telephone  set  in 
the  public  hall.  Amy,  who  knew  little  of  Cope's  im 
mediate  surroundings  at  the  moment,  went  on  in 
accents  of  protest  and  of  grievance,  and  Cope  went  on 
replying  in  a  half-hushed  voice  as  non-committally  as 
he  was  able.  He  dwelt  more  and  more  on  the  trying 
details  of  his  work  in  words  which  conveyed  no  addi 
tional  information  to  any  fellow-dwellers  who  might 
overhear. 

"You  haven't  been  to  see  me  for  a  week,"  came 
Amy's  voice  petulantly,  indignantly. 


COPE  REGAINS  HIS  FREEDOM  229 

"I'm  very  sorry,  I'm  sure,"  returned  Cope  in  a 
carefully  generalized  tone  of  suavity.  It  was  success 
ful  with  the  spinster  in  the  side  room  above,  but  it  was 
no  tone  to  use  with  a  protesting  fiancee. 

"Why  do  you  neglect  me  so?"  Amy's  voice  pro 
ceeded,  with  no  shade  of  appeasement. 

"There  is  no  intention  of  that,"  replied  Cope;  " — 
so  far  as  I  know,"  he  added,  for  ears  about  or  above. 

Again  Amy's  tone  changed.  It  took  on  a  tang  of 
Nnger,  and  also  a  curious  ring  of  finality — as  if,  sud 
denly,  a  last  resolution  had  been  reached.  "Good 
night,"  she  said  abruptly,  and  the  interview  was  over. 

Cope  forgot  Randolph,  and  Lemoyne,  and  his 
themes.  Lemoyne,  returning  within  the  hour,  found 
him  seated  at  his  desk  in  self-absorbed  depression,  his 
work  untouched. 

"Well,  they've  taken  me,"  he  began;  "and  I  shall 
have  a  fairly  good  part."  Cope  made  no  effort  to 
respond  to  the  other's  glowing  self-satisfaction,  but 
sat  with  thoughtful,  downcast  eyes  at  his  desk  before 
the  untouched  themes.  "What's  the  matter?"  asked 
Lemoyne.  "Has  she  been  calling  up  again?" 

Cope  raised  his  head  and  gave  him  a  look.  Lemoyne 
saw  that  his  very  first  guess  had  been  correct. 

"This  is  a  gay  life!"  he  broke  out;  "just  the  life 
I  have  come  down  here  to  lead.  You're  making  your 
self  miserable,  and  you're  making  me  miserable.  It's 
got  to  end." 

Cope  gave  him  a  second  woeful  glance. 

"Write  to  her,  breaking  it  off,"  prompted  Lemoyne. 
"Draft  a  letter  tonight." 


230  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

His  mind  was  full  of  cliches  from  his  reading  and 
his  "scripts."  He  had  heard  all  the  necessary  things 
said ;  in  fact,  had  said  them  himself — now  in  evening 
dress,  now  in  hunting  costume,  now  in  the  loose  habili 
ments  of  Pierrot — time  and  time  again.  The  dis 
satisfied  fiance  need  but  say  that  he  could  not  feel, 
after  all,  that  they  were  as  well  suited  to  each  other 
as  they  ought  to  be,  that  he  could  not  bring  himself 
to  believe  that  his  feeling  for  her  was  what  love  really 
should  be,  and  that 

Thus,  with  a  multiplicity  of  "that's,"  they  accom 
plished  a  rough  draft  which  might  be  restudied  and 
used  on  the  morrow.  "There!"  said  Lemoyne  to  the 
weary  Cope  at  eleven  o'clock ;  "it  ought  to  have  been 
written  a  month  ago." 

Cope  languidly  slipped  the  oft-amended  sheet  un 
der  his  pile  of  themes  and  in  a  spent  voice  suggested 
bed. 

Over  night  and  through  the  following  forenoon  the 
draft  lay  on  his  desk.  When  he  returned  to  his  room 
at  three  o'clock  a  note,  which  had  been  delivered  by 
hand,  awaited  him.  It  was  from  Amy  Leffingwell. 

Cope  read  it,  folded  his  arms  on  his  desk,  bowed  his 
head  on  his  arms,  and,  being  alone,  gave  a  half-sob. 
Then  he  lifted  his  head,  with  face  illumined  and  soul 
refreshed.  Amy  had  asked  for  an  end  to  their  engage 
ment. 

"What  does  she  say?"  asked  Lemoyne,  an  hour 
later. 

"She  says  what  you  say !"  exclaimed  Cope  with 
shining  eyes  and  a  trace  of  half-hysteric  bravado. 


COPE  REGAINS  HIS  FREEDOM  231 

"She  does  not  feel  that  we  are  quite  so  well  suited  to 
each  other  as  we  ought  to  be,  nor  that  her  feeling  to 
ward  me  is  what  love  really  .  .  .  Can  she  have 
been  in  dramatics  too!" 

"Your  letter,"  returned  Lemoyne,  with  dignity, 
"would  have  been  understood." 

"Quite  so,"  Cope  acknowledged,  in  a  kind  of  exul 
tant  excitation.  He  caught  the  rough  draft  from  his 
desk — it  was  all  seared  with  new  emendations — tore 
it  up,  and  threw  the  fragments  into  the  waste-basket. 
"Thank  Heaven,  I  haven't  had  to  send  it!"  In  a 
moment,  "What  am  I  to  write  now?"  he  asked  with 
irony. 

"The  next  will  be  easier,"  returned  Lemoyne,  still 
with  dignity. 

"It  will,"  replied  Cope. 

It  was, — so  much  easier  that  it  became  but  an  ele 
gant  literary  exercise.  A  few  touches  of  nobility,  a 
few  more  of  elegiac  regret,  and  it  was  ready  at  nine 
that  night  for  the  letter-box.  Cope  dropped  it  in 
with  an  iron  clang  and  walked  back  to  his  quarters  a 
free  man. 

A  few  days  later  Lemoyne,  working  for  his  new 
play,  met  Amy  Leffingwell  in  the  music-alcove  of  the 
University  library.  She  had  removed  her  gloves  with 
their  furry  wristlets,  and  he  saw  that  she  had  a  ring 
on  the  third  finger  of  her  left  hand.  Its  scintillations 
made  a  stirring  address  to  his  eye. 

Cope  heard  about  the  ring  that  evening,  and  about 
Amy  Leffingwell's  engagement  to  George  Pearson  the 
next  day. 


232  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

He  had  no  desire  to  dramatize  the  scene  of  Pearson's 
advance,  assault  and  victory,  nor  to  visualize  the  set 
ting  up  of  the  monument  by  which  that  victory  was 
commemorated.  Lemoyne  did  it  for  him. 

Pearson  had  probably  indulged  in  some  disparage 
ment  of  Cope — a  phase  on  which  Lemoyne,  as  a  faith 
ful  friend,  did  not  dwell.  But  he  clearly  saw  George 
taking  Amy's  hand,  on  which  there  was  still  no  ring, 
and  declaring  that  she  should  be  wearing  one  before 
to-morrow  night.  He  figured  both  George  and  Amy 
as  rather  glad  that  Cope  had  not  given  one,  ,and  as 
more  and  more  inclining,  with  the  passage  of  the  days, 
to  the  comfortable  feeling  that  there  had  never  been 
any  real  engagement  at  all. 

Lemoyne  attempted  to  put  some  of  his  visualizings 
before  Cope,  but  Cope  cut  him  short.  "Now  I  will 
settle  down  to  work  on  my  thesis,"  he  said,  "and  get 
my  degree  at  the  June  convocation." 

"Good,"  said  Lemoyne;  "and  now  I  can  get  my 
mind  on  the  club."  He  went  to  the  window  and  looked 
out  on  the  night.  The  stars  were  a-glitter.  "Let's 
take  a  turn  round  the  block  before  we  turn  in." 

They  spent  ten  minutes  in  the  clear  winter  air.  As 
Cope,  on  their  return,  stooped  to  put  his  latch-key  to 
use,  Lemoyne  impulsively  threw  an  arm  across  his 
shoulder.  "Everything  is  all  right,  now,"  he  said,  in 
a  tone  of  high  gratification ;  and  Urania,  through  the 
whole  width  of  her  starry  firmament,  looked  down 
kindly  upon  a  happier  household. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

COPE  IN  DANGER  ANEW 

A  SIMILAR  satisfaction  came  to  prevail  in  University 
circles,  and  in  the  lesser  circle  which  Cope  had  formed 
outside.  His  own  classroom,  after  a  week,  became  a 
different  place.  There  had  been  some  disposition  to 
take  a  facetious  view  of  Cope's  adventure.  His  class 
had  felt  him  as  cool  and  rather  stiff,  and  comment 
would  not  be  stayed.  One  bright  girl  thought  he  had 
spoiled  a  good  suit  of  clothes  for  nothing.  The  boys, 
who  knew  how  much  clothes  cost,  and  how  much  every 
suit  counted,  put  their  comment  on  a  different  basis. 
The  more  serious  among  them  went  no  further,  indeed, 
than  to  say  that  if  a  man  had  found  himself  making 
a  mistake,  the  sooner  he  got  out  of  it  the  better.  For 
weeks  this  affair  of  Cope's  had  hung  over  the  black 
board  like  a  dim  tapestry.  Now  it  was  gone ;  and 
when  he  tabulated  in  chalk  the  Elizabethan  dramatists 
or  the  Victorian  novelists  there  was  nothing  to  prevent 
his  students  from  seeing  them. 

Medora  Phillips  became  sympathetic  and  tender. 
She  let  him  understand  that  she  thought  he  had  been 
unfairly  treated.  This  did  not  prevent  her  from  being 
much  kinder  to  Amy  Leffingwell.  Amy,  earlier,  had 
been  so  affected  by  the  general  change  of  tone  that, 
more  than  once,  she  had  felt  prompted  to  take  herself 

233 


234  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

and  her  belongings  out  of  the  house.  But  she  still 
lingered  on,  as  she  was  likely  to  do,  during  a  short 
engagement ;  and  Mrs.  Phillips  was  now  amiability 
itself  to  George  and  Amy  both. 

Her  method  of  soothing  Cope  was  to  take  him  to 
the  theatre  and  the  opera  in  town:  he  could  scarcely 
come  to  the  house.  It  was  now  late  in  January  and 
the  opera  season  was  near  its  end.  People  were  tiring 
of  their  boxes,  or  had  started  South:  it  had  become 
almost  a  work  of  merit  to  fill  a  friend's  box  for  her. 
During  the  last  week  of  the  season,  Mrs.  Phillips  was 
put  in  position  to  do  this.  She  invited  Cope,  and  took 
along  Hortense,  and  found  in  the  city  itself  a  married 
pair  who  could  get  to  the  place  and  home  again  with 
out  her  help.  Lemoyne  would  have  made  six,  and  the 
third  man;  but  he  was  not  bidden.  Why  pack  the 
box?  A  better  effect  was  made  by  presenting,  negli 
gently,  one  empty  seat.  Lemoyne  dressed  Cope,  how 
ever.  He  had  brought  to  Churchton  the  outgrown 
evening  clothes;  and  Cope,  in  his  exuberance,  bought 
a  new  pair  of  light  shoes  and  white  gloves.  He  looked 
well  as  he  sat  on  the  back  seat  of  the  limousine  with 
Medora  Phillips,  during  the  long  drive  in;  and  he 
looked  well — strikingly,  handsomely  well — in  the  box 
itself.  Indeed,  thought  Medora,  he  made  other  young 
men  in  nearby  boxes — young  men  of  "means"  and 
"position" — look  almost  plebeian.  "He  is  charming," 
she  said  to  herself,  over  and  over  again. 

What  about  him  "took"  her?  Was  it  his  slender- 
ness,  his  grace?  Was  it  his  youthfulness,  intact  to 
this  moment  and  promising  an  extension  of  agreeable 


COPE  IN  DANGER  ANEW  235 

possibilities  into  an  entertaining  future?  Or  was  it 
more  largely  his  fundamental  coolness  of  tone  ?  Again 
he  was  an  icicle  on  the  temple — this  time  the  temple 
of  song.  "He  is  glittering,"  said  Medora,  intent  on 
his  blazing  blue  eyes,  his  beautiful  teeth  ever  ready 
for  a  public  smile,  and  the  luminous  backward  sweep 
of  his  hair;  "and  he  is  not  soft."  She  thought  sud 
denly  of  Arthur  Lemoyne ;  he,  by  comparison,  seemed 
like  a  dark,  yielding  plum-pudding. 

On  the  way  into  town  Medora  had  had  Hortense  sit 
in  front  with  Peter.  This  arrangement  had  enabled 
her  to  lay  her  hand  more  than  once  on  Cope's,  and  to 
tell  him  again  that  he  had  been  rather  badly  treated, 
and  that  Amy,  when  you  came  to  it,  was  a  poor  slight 
child  who  scarcely  knew  her  own  mind.  "I  hope  she 
has  not  made  a  mistake,  after  all,"  breathed  Medora. 

All  this  soothed  Cope.  The  easy  motion  of  the 
luxurious  car  half-hypnotized  him ;  a  scene  of  un 
accustomed  splendor  and  brilliancy  lay  just  ahead 
What  wonder  that  Medora  found  him  sceni- 
cally  gratifying  in  her  box  (the  dear  creature's  titilla- 
tion  made  it  seem  "hers"  indeed),  and  gave  his  name 
with  great  gusto  to  the  young  woman  of  the  note 
book  and  pencil?  And  the  box  was  not  at  the  back, 
but  well  along  to  one  side,  where  people  could  better 
see  him.  Its  number,  too,  was  lower;  so  that,  next 
morning,  he  was  well  up  in  the  list,  instead  of  at  the 
extreme  bottom,  where  two  or  three  of  the  young  men 
of  means  and  position  found  themselves.  Some  of 
the  girls  in  his  class  read  his  name,  and  had  no  more 
to  say  about  wet  clothes. 


236  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 


Hortense,  on  the  front  seat  of  the  car,  had  had  the 
good  sense  to  say  little  and  the  acumen  to  listen  much. 
She  knew  that  Cope  must  "call"  soon,  and  she  knew 
it  would  be  on  some  evening  when  he  had  been  advised 
that  Amy  was  not  at  home.  There  came,  before  long, 
an  evening  when  Amy  and  George  Pearson  went  into 
town  for  a  musical  comedy,  and  Cope  walked  across 
once  more  to  the  familiar  house. 

Hortense  was  in  the  drawing-room.  She  was  bril 
liantly  dressed,  and  her  dark  aggressive  face  wore  a 
look  of  bravado.  In  her  rich  contralto  she  welcomed 
Cope  with  an  initiative  which  all  but  crowded  her  aunt 
into  second  place.  Under  the  very  nose  of  Medora 
Phillips,  whom  she  breezily  seemed  to  regard  as  a 
chaperon,  she  brought  forward  the  sketch  of  Cope 
in  oils,  which  she  had  done  partly  from  observation 
and  partly  from  memory.  She  may  have  had,  too, 
some  slight  aid  from  a  photograph, — one  which  her 
aunt  had  wheedled  out  of  Cope  and  had  missed,  on  one 
occasion  at  least,  from  her  desk  in  the  library.  Hor 
tense  now  boldly  asked  his  cooperation  for  finishing  her 
small  canvas. 

Though  the  "wood-nymphs"  of  last  autumn's  legend 
might  indeed  be,  as  he  had  broadly  said,  "a  nice 
enough  lot  of  girls,"  they  really  were  not  all  alike 
and  indistinguishable :  one  of  them  at  least,  as  he 
should  learn,  had  thumbs. 

Hortense  wheeled  into  action. 

"The  composition  is  good,"  she  observed,  looking 
at  the  canvas  as  it  stood  propped  against  the  back  of 
a  Chippendale  chair ;  "and,  in  general,  the  values  are 


COPE  IN  DANGER  ANEW  237 

all  right.  But —  -"  She  glanced  from  the  sketch 
back  to  the  subject  of  it. 

Cope  started.  He  recognized  himself  readily 
enough.  However,  he  had  had  no  idea  that  self- 
recognition  was  to  be  one  of  the  pleasures  of  his 
evening. 

" but  I  shall  need  you  yourself  for  the  final 

touches- — the  ones  that  will  make  all  the  difference." 

"It's  pretty  good  as  it  is,"  declared  Mrs.  Phillips, 
who,  privately,  was  almost  as  much  surprised  as  Cope. 
"When  did  you  get  to  do  it?" 

This  inquiry,  simple  as  it  was,  put  the  canvas  in  a 
new  light — that  of  an  icon  long  cherished  as  the  ob 
ject  of  private  devotion.  Hortense  stepped  forward 
to  the  chair  and  made  an  adjustment  of  the  picture's 
position :  she  had  a  flush  and  a  frown  to  conceal.  "But 
never  mind,"  she  thought,  as  she  turned  the  canvas 
toward  a  slightly  different  light ;  "if  Aunt  Medora 
wants  to  help,  let  her." 

She  did  not  reply  to  her  aunt's  question.  "Re 
touched  from  life,  and  then  framed — who  knows?"  she 
asked.  Of  course  it  would  look  immensely  better; 
would  look,  in  fact,  as  it  was  meant  to  look,  as  she  could 
make  it  look. 

She  told  Cope  that  she  had  set  up  a  studio  near  the 
town  square,  not  far  from  the  fountain-basin  and  the 
elms 

"Which  won't  count  for  much  at  this  time  of  year," 
interjected  her  aunt. 

"Well,  the  light  is  good,"  returned  Hortense,  "and 
the  place  is  quiet;  and  if  Mr.  Cope  will  drop  in  two 


238  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

or  three  times,  I  think  he  will  end  by  feeling  that  I 
have  done  him  justice." 

"This  is  a  most  kind  attention,"  said  Cope,  slightly 
at  sea.  "I  ought  to  be  able  to  find  time  some  after 
noon  .  .  ." 

"Not  too  late  in  the  afternoon,"  Hortense  cautioned. 
"The  light  in  February  goes  early." 

When  Lemoyne  heard  of  this  new  project  he  gave 
Cope  a  look.  He  had  no  concern  as  to  Mrs.  Phillips, 
who  was,  for  him,  but  a  rather  dumpy,  over-brisk, 
little  woman  of  forty-five.  If  she  must  run  off  with 
Bert  every  so  often  in  a  motor-car,  he  could  manage 
to  stand  it.  Besides,  he  had  no  desire  to  shut  Cope — 
and  himself — out  of  a  good  house.  But  the  niece, 
scarcely  twenty-three,  was  a  more  serious  matter. 

"Look  out!"  he  said  to  Cope.     "Look  out!" 

"I  can  take  care  of  myself,"  the  other  replied, 
rather  tartly. 

"I  wish  you  could!"  retorted  Lemoyne,  with  poig 
nant  brevity.  "I'll  go  with  you." 

"You  won't !" 

"Fd  rather  save  you  near  the  start,  than  have  to 
try  at  the  very  end." 

Cope  flung  himself  out;  and  he  looked  in  at  Hor- 
tense's  studio — which  she  had  taken  (or  borrowed) 
for  a  month — before  the  week  was  half  over. 

Hortense  had  stepped  into  the  shoes  of  a  young 
gentlewoman  who  had  been  trying  photography,  and 
who  had  rather  tired  of  it.  At  any  rate,  she  had  had 
a  chance  to  go  to  Florida  for  a  month  and  had  seized 
it.  Hortense  had  succeeded  to  her  little  north  sky- 


COPE  IN  DANGER  ANEW  239 

light,  and  had  rearranged  the  rest  to  her  own  taste; 
it  was  a  mingling  of  order  and  disorder,  of  calculation 
and  of  careless  chance.  She  had  a  Victory  of  Samo- 
thrace  and  a  green-and-gold  dalmatic  from  some  Tus 
can  town But  why  go  on? 

Cope  had  not  been  in  this  new  milieu  fifteen  minutes 
before  Randolph  happened  along. 

Randolph,  as  a  friend  of  the  family,  could  scarcely 
be  other  than  persona  grata.  Hortense,  however, 
gave  him  no  great  welcome.  She  stopped  in  the  work 
that  had  but  been  begun.  The  winter  day  was  none 
too  bright,  and  the  best  of  the  light  would  soon  be 
past,  she  said.  The  engagement  could  stand  over.  In 
any  event,  he  was  there  ("he,"  of  course,  meaning 
Cope),  and  a  present  delay  would  only  add  to  the 
total  number  of  his  calls.  Hortense  began  to  wipe  her 
brushes  and  to  talk  of  tea. 

"I'll  go,  I'll  go,"  said  Randolph  obligingly.  "I 
heard  about  the  new  shop  only  yesterday,  and  I  wanted 
to  see  it.  I  don't  exact  that  I  shall  witness  the  mys 
teries  in  active  operation." 

Cope's  glance  asked  Randolph  to   remain. 

"There  are  no  mysteries,"  returned  Hortense.  "It's 
just  putting  on  a  few  dabs  of  paint  in  the  right 
places." 

She  continued  to  take  a  few  dabs  from  her  brushes 
and  to  talk  tea.  "Stay  for  a  sip,"  she  said. 

"Very  well;  thank  you,"  replied  Randolph,  and 
wondered  how  long  "a  sip"  might  mean. 

In  the  end  it  meant  no  longer  for  him  than  for  Cope ; 
they  came  away  together.  Hortense  held  Cope  for  a 


240  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

moment  to  make  a  second  engagement  at  an  earlier 
hour. 

Randolph  had  not  met  Cope  for  several  days,  except 
at  the  opera,  where  he  had  left  his  regular  Monday 
evening  seat  in  the  parquet  to  spend  a  few  moments  in 
Mrs.  Phillips'  friend's  box.  He  had  never  seen  Cope 
in  evening  dress  before;  but  he  found  him  handsome 
and  distinguished,  and  some  of  the  glamour  of  that 
high  occasion  still  lingered  about  the  young  man  as 
he  now  walked  through  High  Street,  in  his  rather 
shabby  tweeds,  at  Randolph's  side. 

Randolph  looked  back  upon  his  dinner  as  a  com 
plete  success:  Pearson  was  engaged,  and  Cope  was 
free.  He  now  said  to  Cope: 

"Of  course  you  must  know  I  feel  you  were  none 
too  handsomely  treated.  George  is  a  pleasant,  enter 
prising  fellow,  but  somewhat  sudden  and  rapacious. 
If  he  is  happy,  I  hope  you  are  no  less  happy  yourself. 
.  .  ."  Thus  he  resumed  the  subject  which  had  been 
dropped  at  the  Library  door. 

Cope  shrank  a  little,  and  Randolph  felt  him  shrink 
ing.  He  fell  silent ;  he  understood.  Pain  sometimes 
took  its  own  time  to  travel,  and  reached  its  goal  by  a 
slow,  circuitous  route.  He  thought  suddenly  of  his 
bullfight  in  Seville,  twenty-five  years  before.  He  had 
sat  out  his  six  bulls  with  entire  composure ;  yet,  back  in 
America,  some  time  later,  he  had  encountered  a  bull 
fight  in  an  early  film  and  had  not  been  able  to  follow 
it  through.  Cope,  perhaps,  was  beginning  to  feel  the 
edge  of  the  sword  and  the  drag  at  his  vitals.  The 
thing  was  over,  and  his,  the  elder  man's,  own  part  in 


COPE  IN  DANG.ER  ANEW  241 

it  successfully  accomplished;  so  why  had  he,  conven 
tional  commentator,  felt  the  need  of  further  words? 

He  let  the  unhappy  matter  drop.  When  he  spoke 
again  he  reminded  Cope  that  the  invitation  for  himself 
and  Lemoyne  still  held  good.  Amy  had  been  swept 
from  the  stage;  but  Lemoyne,  a  figure  of  doubt,  was 
yet  in  its  background.  "I  must  have  a  'close-up'," 
Randolph  declared  to  himself,  "and  find  out  what  he 
comes  to."  Cope  had  shown  some  reluctance  to  meet 
his  advances — a  reluctance  which,  he  felt,  was  not  al 
together  Cope's  own. 

"I  know  we  shall  be  glad  to  come  sometime,"  re 
plied  Cope,  with  seeming  heartiness.  This  heartiness 
may  have  had  its  element  of  the  genuine ;  at  any  rate, 
here  was  another  "good  house,"  from  which  no  one 
need  shut  himself  out  without  good  cause.  If  Lemoyne 
developed  too  extreme  a  reluctance,  he  would  be  re 
minded  that  he  was  cherishing  the  hope  of  a  position 
in  the  registrar's  office,  for  at  least  half  of  the  day ; 
also,  that  Randolph  enjoyed  some  standing  in  Uni 
versity  circles,  and  that  his  brother-in-law  was  one  of 
the  trustees. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  continued  Cope,  in  a  further  corro- 
boration  which  might  better  have  been  dispensed  with. 

"You  will  be  welcome,"  replied  Randolph  quietly. 
He  would  have  preferred  a  single  assurance  to  a  double 
one. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

COPE  IN  DOUBLE  DANGER 

MEANWHILE  Cope  and  Lemoyne  refined  daily  on  the 
details  of  their  new  menage  and  applied  themselves 
with  new  single-mindedness  to  their  respective  interests. 
Cope  had  found  a  subject  for  his  thesis  in  the  great 
field  of  English  literature, — or,  rather,  in  a  narrow  by 
path  which  traversed  one  of  its  corners.  The  import 
ant  thing,  as  he  frequently  reminded  Lemoyne,  was 
not  the  thesis  itself,  but  the  aid  which  it  might  give 
his  future.  "It  will  make  a  difference,  in  salary,  of 
three  or  four  hundred  dollars,"  he  declared. 

Lemoyne  himself  gave  a  few  hours  a  week  to 
Psychology  in  its  humbler  ranges.  There  were  ways 
to  hold  the  attention  of  children,  and  there  were  forms 
of  advertising  calculated  to  affect  favorably  the  man 
who  had  money  to  spend.  In  addition,  the  University 
had  found  out  that  he  could  sing  as  well  as  act,  and 
something  had  been  said  about  a  place  for  him  in  a 
musical  play. 

Between-times  they  brought  their  quarters  into 
better  order;  and  this  despite  numerous  minor  dis 
putes.  The  last  new  picture  did  not  always  find  at  once 
its  proper  place  on  the  wall ;  and  sometimes  there  were 
discussions  as  to  whether  it  should  be  toast  or  rolls, 
and  whether  there  should  be  eggs  or  not.  Occasionally 

242 


COPE  IN  DOUBLE  DANGER  213 

sharp  tones  and  quivering  nostrils,  but  commonly 
amity  and  peace. 

They  were  seen,  or  heard  of,  as  going  about  a  great 
deal  together:  to  lectures,  to  restaurants,  to  enterj 
tainments  in  the  city.  But  they  went  no  longer,  for 
the  present,  to  Ashburn  Avenue ;  they  took  their  time 
to  remember  Randolph's  repeated  invitation ;  and  there 
was,  as  yet,  no  further  attendance  at  the  studio  in  the 
Square, — for  any  reference  to  the  unfinished  portrait 
was  likely  to  produce  sharp  tones  and  quivering  nos-r 
trils  indeed. 

Other  invitations  began  to  come  to  Cope, — some  of 
them  from  people  he  knew  but  slightly.  He  wondered 
whether  his  swoon  and  his  shipwreck  really  could  have 
done  so  much  to  make  him  known.  Sometimes  when 
these  cards  seemed  to  imply  but  a  simple  form  of  en 
tertainment,  at  a  convenient  hour  of  the  late  after-^ 
noon,  he  would  attend.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  to 
note  that  commonly  Medora  Phillips  was  present  j 
she  was  always  in  "active  circulation,"  as  he  put  it ; 
and  there  he  let  things  lie. 

One  of  these  entertainments  was  an  afternoon  re 
ception  of  ordinary  type,  and  the  woman  giving  it 
had  thrown  a  smallish  library  into  closer  communica 
tion  with  her  drawing-room  without  troubling  to  re 
duce  the  library  to  order :  books,  pamphlets,  magazines 
lay  about  in  profuse  carelessness.  And  it  was  in  this 
library  that  Cope  and  Medora  Phillips  met. 

"You've  been  neglecting  me,"  she  said. 

"But  how  can  I ?"  he  began. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  returned  generously.   "But  after 


BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

the  first  of  May —  Well,  he  is  a  young  man  of  decisive 
ness  and  believes  in  quick  action."  She  made  a  whiff, 
accompanied  by  an  outward  and  forward  motion  of 
the  hands.  She  was  wafting  Amy  Leffingwell  out  of 
her  own  house  into  the  new  home  which  George  Pear 
son  was  preparing  for  her.  "After  that " 

"Yes,  after  that,  of  course." 

Mrs.  Phillips  was  handling  unconsciously  a  small 
pamphlet  which  lay  on  the  library  table.  It  was  a 
magazine  of  verse — a  monthly  which  did  not  scorn 
poets  because  they  happened  to  live  in  the  county  in 
which  it  was  published.  The  table  of  contents  was 
printed  on  the  cover,  and  the  names  of  contributors 
were  arranged  in  order  down  the  right-hand  side. 
Mrs.  Phillips,  carelessly  running  her  eye  over  it  while 
thinking  of  other  things,  was  suddenly  aware  of  the 
name  of  Carolyn  Thorpe. 

"What's  this?"  she  asked.  She  ran  her  eye  across 
to  the  other  edge  of  the  cover,  and  read,  "Two  Son 
nets." 

"Well,  well,"  she  observed,  and  turned  to  the  in 
dicated  page.  And,  "When  in  the  world ?"  she 

asked,  and  turned  back  to  the  cover.  It  was  the  latest 
issue  of  the  magazine,  and  but  a  day  or  two  old. 

"Carolyn  in  print,  at  last !"  she  exclaimed.  "Why, 
isn't  this  splendid!" 

Then  she  returned  to  the  text  of  the  two  sonnets 
and  read  the  first  of  them — part  of  it  aloud. 

"Well,"  she  gasped;  "this  is  ardent,  this  is   out 
spoken  !" 
•  "That's  the  fashion  among  woman  poets  to-day," 


COPE  IN  DOUBLE  DANGER  215 

returned  Cope,  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone.  "They've 
gone  farther  and  farther,  until  they  hardly  realize 
how  far  they  have  gone.  Don't  let  them  disturb  you." 

Mrs.  Phillips  reread  the  closing  lines  of  the  first 
sonnet,  and  then  ran  over  the  second.  "Good 
heavens  !"  she  exclaimed ;  "when  /  was  a  girl !" 

"Times  change." 

"I  should  say  so."  She  looked  from  the  magazine 
to  Cope.  "I  wonder  who  'the  only  begetter'  may  be." 

"Is  that  quite  fair?  So  many  writers  think  it  un 
just — and  even  obtuse  and  offensive — if  the  thing  is 
put  on  too  personal  a  basis.  It's  all  just  an  imagined 
situation,  manipulated  artistically  .  .  ." 

Mrs.  Phillips  looked  straight  at  him.  "Bertram 
Cope,  it's  you!"  She  spoke  with  elation.  These  son 
nets  constituted  a  tribute.  Cope,  she  knew,  had  never 
looked  three  times,  all  told,  at  Carolyn  Thorpe;  yet 
here  was  Carolyn  saying  that  she  .  .  . 

Cope  dropped  his  eyes  and  slightly  flushed. 

"I  wonder  if  she  knows  it's  out?"  Mrs.  Phillips  went 
on  swiftly.  "Did  you?" 

"I?"  cried  Cope,  in  dismay. 

"You  were  taking  it  all  so  calmly." 

"  'Calmly'?  I  don't  take  it  at  all!  Why  should  I? 
And  why  should  you  think  there  is  any  ref ?" 

"Because  I'm  so  'obtuse'  and  'offensive,'  I  suppose. 
Oh,  if  I  could  only  write,  or  paint,  or  play,  or  some 
thing!" 

Cope  put  his  hand  wearily  to  his  forehead.  The 
arts  were  a  curse.  So  were  gifted  girls.  So  were  over- 
appreciative  women.  He  wished  he  were  back  home, 


246  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

Bifloking    a    quiet    cigarette    with    Arthur    Lemoyne. 

Mrs.  Ryder  came  bustling  up — Mrs.  Ryder,  the 
mathematical  lady  who  had  given  the  first  tea  of  all. 

"I  have  just  heard  about  Carolyn's  poems.  What 
it  must  be  to  live  in  the  midst  of  talents!  And  I 
hear  that  Hortense  has  finally  taken  a  studio  for  her 
portraits." 

"Yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Phillips.  "And  she"— with  a 
slight  emphasis — "is  doing  Mr.  Cope's  picture," — 
with  another  slight  emphasis  at  the  end. 

Cope  felt  a  half-angry  tremor  run  through  him.  He 
was  none  the  less  perturbed  because  Mcdora  Phillips 
meant  obviously  no  offense.  Hortense  and  Carolyn 
were  viewed  as  but  her  delegates ;  they  were  doing  for 
her  what  she  would  have  been  glad  to  be  able  to  do 
for  herself.  Clearly,  in  her  mind,  there  was  not  to  be 
another  Amy. 

Well,  that  was  something,  he  thought.  He  laughed 
uneasily,  and  gave  the  enthusiastic  Mrs.  Ryder  a  few 
details  of  the  art-world  (as  she  called  it), — details 
which  she  would  not  be  denied. 

"I  must  call  on  dear  Hortense,  some  afternoon," 
she  said. 

"Do,"  returned  Hortense's  aunt.  "And  mention  the 
place.  Let's  keep  the  dear  girl  as  busy  as  possible." 

"If  it  were  only  photographs  .  .  ."  submitted 
Mrs.  Ryder. 

"That's  a  career  too,"  Mrs.  Phillips  acknowledged. 

They  all  drifted  out  into  the  larger  room.  Mrs. 
Ryder  left  them, — perhaps  to  distribute  her  small 
change  of  art  and  literature  through  the  crowd. 


COPE  IN  DOUBLE  DANGER  247 

"You're  not  forgetting  Hortense?"  Mrs.  Phillips 
herself  said,  before  leaving  him. 

"By   no  means,"   Cope   replied. 

"I  hear  you  didn't  make  much  of  a  start." 

"We  had  tea,"  returned  Cope,  with  satirical  inten 
tion. 

This  left  Medora  Phillips  unscathed.  "Tea  puts 
on  no  paint,"  she  observed,  and  was  lost  in  the  press. 

It  need  not  be  assumed  that  knowledge  of  Carolyn 
Thorpe's  verse  gained  wide  currency  through  Uni 
versity  circles,  but  there  was  a  copy  of  the  magazine 
in  the  University  library.  Lemoyne  saw  it  there.  He 
scarcely  knew  whether  to  be  pleased  or  vexed.  Finally 
he  decided  that  there  was  safety  in  numbers.  If  Cope 
really  intended  to  go  to  that  studio,  it  was  just  as 
well  that  there  should  be  an  impassioned  poetess  in 
the  background.  And  it  was  just  as  well  that  Cope 
should  know  she  was  there.  Lemoyne  took  a  line  not 
unlike  Mrs.  Phillips'  own. 

"I  only  wish  there  were  more  of  them,"  he  declared, 
looking  up  from  his  desk.  "I'd  like  a  lady  barber  for 
your  head,  a  lady  shoemaker  for  your  feet,  a  lady 
psychologist  for  your  soul " 

"Stop  it !"  cried  Cope.  "I've  had  about  all  I  can 
stand.  If  you  want  to  live  in  peace,  as  you  sometimes 
say,  do  your  share  to  keep  the  peace." 

"You  are  going  to  have  another  sitting?" 

"I  am.     How  can  I  get  out  of  it?" 

"You  don't  want  to  get  out  of  it." 

"Well,   after   all   the   attentions   they've   shown   us 


248  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

"Us?     You." 

"Me,  then.     Shall  I  be  so  uncivil  as  to  hold  back?" 

"It  might  not  displease  her  if  you  did." 

"Her?" 

"Your  Mrs.  Phillips.     If  I  may  risk  a  guess — 

"You  may  not.  Your  precious  'psychology'  can 
wait.  Don't  be  in  such  a  damned  hurry  to  use  it." 

"It  had  better  be  used  in  time." 

"It  had  better  not  be  used  at  all.  Drop  it.  Think 
about  your  new  play,  or  something." 

"Oh,  the  devil!"  sighed  Lemoync.  "Winnebago 
seems  mighty  far  off.  We  got  on  there,  at  least."  He 
bent  again  over  his  desk. 

Cope  put  down  his  book  and  came  across.  There 
were  tears,  perhaps,  in  his  eyes — the  moisture  of 
vexation,  or  of  contrition,  or  of  both.  "We  can  get 
along  here,  too,"  he  said,  with  an  arm  around 
Lemoyne's  shoulder. 

"Let's  hope  so,"  returned  Lemoyne,  softening,  with 
his  hand  pressed  on  Cope's  own. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
COPE  AS  A  GO-BETWEEN 

THIS  brief  exchange  might  have  passed  for  a  quarrel 
and  a  reconciliation ;  and  the  reconciliation  seemed  to 
call  for  a  seal.  That  was  soon  set  by  another  of 
Randolph's  patient  invitations  to  dinner. 

"Let's  go,"  said  Cope ;  "I've  got  to  go  again — 
sometime." 

"I  don't  care  about  it,  very  much,"  replied  Lemoyne. 

"If  you  want  any  help  of  his  toward  a  position 
.  .  .  Time's  passing.  And  a  man  can't  be  ex 
pected  to  bestir  himself  much  for  another  man  he's 
never  even  seen." 

"All  right.     I'll  go  with  you." 

Randolph  was  glad  to  see  Cope  again,  whom  he 
had  not  met  since  the  half  hour  in  Hortense  Dunton's 
studio.  He  was  also  glad  to  secure,  finally,  a  close 
and  leisurely  look  at  Lemoyne.  Lemoyne  took  the 
same  occasion  for  a  close  and  leisurely  look  at  Ran 
dolph.  Each  viewed  the  other  with  dislike  and  dis 
trust.  Each  spoke,  so  far  as  might  be,  to  Cope — or 
through  him.  Sing-Lo,  who  was  prepared  to  smile, 
saw  few  smiles  elsewhere,  and  became  sedate,  even 
glum. 

Randolph  felt  a  physical  distaste  for  Lemoyne.  His 
dark  eyes  were  too  liquid ;  his  person  was  too  plump ; 

249 


250  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

the  bit  of  black  bristle  beneath  his  nose  was  an  offense ; 

his   aura Yet   who    can    say    anything   definite 

about  so  indefinite  a  thing  as  an  aura,  save  that  one 
feels  it  and  is  attracted  or  repelled  by  it?  Lemoyne, 
on  his  side,  developed  an  equal  distaste  (or  repug 
nance)  for  the  "little  gray  man" — as  he  called  Ran 
dolph  to  himself  and,  later,  even  to  Cope;  though 
Randolph,  speaking  justly,  was  exactly  neither  gray 
nor  little.  Lemoyne  noted,  too,  the  early  banishment 
of  Randolph's  eyeglasses,  which  disappeared  as  they 
had  disappeared  once  or  twice  before.  He  felt  that 
Randolph  was  trying  to  stay  young  rather  late,  and 
was  showing  himself  inclined  to  "go"  with  younger 
men  longer  than  they  would  welcome  him.  Why  didn't 
he  consort  with  people  of  his  own  age  and  kind?  He 
was  old;  so  why  couldn't  he  be  old? 

The  talk  led — through  Cope — to  reminiscences  of 
life  in  Winnebago.  Randolph  presently  began  to  feel 
Lemoyne  as  a  variously  yet  equivocally  gifted  young 
fellow — one  so  curiously  endowed  as  to  be  of  no  use 
to  his  own  people,  and  of  no  avail  for  any  career  they 
were  able  to  offer  him.  A  bundle  of  minor  talents ;  a 
possible  delight  to  casual  acquaintances,  but  an  exas 
peration  to  his  own  household ;  an  ornamental  skimmer 
over  life's  surfaces,  when  not  a  false  fire  for  other 
young  voyagers  along  life's  coasts.  Yret  Bertram 
Cope  admired  him  and  had  become  absorbed  in  him. 
Their  life  in  that  northern  town,  with  its  fringe  of 
interests — educational,  ecclesiastical,  artistic  and 
aquatic — had  been  intimate,  fused  to  a  degree.  Ran 
dolph  began  to  realize,  for  the  first  time,  the  difficul- 


COPE  AS  A  GO-BETWEEN  251 

ties  in  the  way  of  "cultivating"  Cope.  Cope  was  a 
field  already  occupied,  a  niche  already  filled. 

While  Randolph  was  gathering  (through  Cope) 
details  of  the  life  in  Winnebago,  Lemoyne  was  gather 
ing  (through  Cope)  details  of  the  life  in  Churchton 
during  the  past  autumn.  He  began  to  reconstruct 
that  season :  the  long  range  of  social  entertainments, 
the  proposed  fall  excursions,  the  sudden  shifting  of 
domicile.  Randolph,  it  was  clear,  had  tried  to  appro 
priate  Cope  and  to  supplant  (knowingly  or  unknow 
ingly)  Cope's  closest  friend.  Lemoyne  became  im 
patient  over  the  fact  that  he  was  now  sitting  at  Ran 
dolph's  table.  However,  if  Randolph  could  help  him 
to  a  place  and  a  salary,  that  would  make  some 
amends. 

Presently  Cope,  having  served  as  an  intermediary, 
became  the  open  centre  of  interest.  His  thesis  was 
brought  forward  as  a  suitable  subject  of  inquiry  and 
comment.  It  was  a  relief  to  have  come  to  a  final  de 
cision;  but  no  relief  was  in  sight  for  a  long  time 
from  the  slavery  of  close  reading.  Every  moment 
that  could  be  spared  from  his  classroom  was  given  up 
to  books — authors  in  whom  he  might  be  interested  or 
not  interested,  but  who  must  be  gone  through. 

"A  sort  of  academic  convention,"  said  Cope,  rather 
wanly ;  "but  a  necessary  one." 

His  eyes  had  begun  to  show  excessive  application; 
at  least  they  looked  tired  and  dim.  His  color,  too, 
was  paler.  He  had  come  to  suggest  again  the  young 
man  who  had  been  picked  up  from  Medora  Phillips' 
dining-room  floor  and  laid  out  on  the  couch  in  her 


252  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

library,  and  who  had  shown  a  good  deal  of  pallor 
during  the  few  days  that  followed.  "Take  a  little 
more  air  and  exercise,"  Randolph  counselled. 

"A  good  rule  always,  for  everybody,"  said  Lemoyne, 
with  a  withholding  of  all  tone  and  expression. 

"I  believe,"  Randolph  continued,  "that  you  are 
losing  in  both  weight  and  color.  That  would  be  no 
advantage  to  yourself — and  it  might  complicate  Miss 
Dunton's  problem.  It's  perplexing  to  an  artist  when 
one's  subject  changes  under  one's  very  eye." 

"There  won't  be  much  time  for  sitting,  from  now 
on,"  observed  Lemoyne  concisely. 

"I  might  try  to  go  round  once  more,"  said  Cope,  " — 
in  fairness.  If  there  are  to  be  higher  lights  on  my 
cheekbones  and  lower  lights  for  my  eyes,  an  hour  or 
so  should  serve  to  settle  it." 

"I  wouldn't  introduce  many  changes  into  my  eyes 
and  cheekbones,  if  I  were  you,"  said  Randolph. 
Lemoyne  was  displeased;  he  thought  that  Randolph 
was  taking  advantage  of  his  position  as  host  to  make 
an  observation  of  unwarranted  saliency,  and  he 
frowned  at  his  plate. 

Cope  flushed,  and  looked  at  his. 

The  talk  drifted  toward  dramatics,  with  Winnebago 
once  more  the  background;  but  the  foreground  was 
occupied  by  a  new  musical  comedy  which  one  of  the 
clubs  might  try  in  another  month,  and  the  tone  be 
came  more  cheery.  Sing-Lo,  who  had  come  in  with  a 
maple  mousse  of  his  own  making,  smiled  at  last ;  and 
he  smiled  still  more  widely  when,  at  the  end  of  the 
course,  his  chief  occidental  masterpiece  was  praised. 


COPE  AS  A  GO-BETWEEN  253 

Sing-Lo  also  provided  coffee  and  cigars  in  the  den; 
and  it  was  here  that  Cope  felt  the  atmosphere  right 
for  venturing  a  word  in  behalf  of  Lemoyne.  There 
had  been  few  signs  of  relenting  in  Winnebago;  and 
some  modest  source  of  income  would  be  welcome — in 
fact,  was  almost  necessary. 

"Of  course  work  is  increasing  in  the  offices,"  said 
Randolph,  looking  from  one  young  man  to  the  other; 
"and  of  course  I  have,  directly  or  indirectly,  some 
slight  'influence.'  " 

He  felt  no  promptings  to  lend  Lemoyne  a  hand ;  yet 
Cope  himself,  even  if  out  of  reach,  might  at  least  re 
main  an  object  of  continuing  kindness. 

"But  if  you  are  to  interest  yourself  in  some  new 
undertaking  by  'The  Grayfriars,'  "  he  said  to  Le 
moyne,  "will  you  have  much  time  and  attention  to 
give  to  office-work?" 

"Oh,  I  have  time,"  replied  Lemoyne  jauntily,  "and 
not  many  studies.  Half  a  day  of  routine  work,  I 
thought  ...  Of  course  I'm  not  a  manager,  or 
director,  or  anything  like  that.  I  should  just  have  a 
part  of  moderate  importance,  and  should  have  only  to 
give  good  heed  to  rehearsals  .  .  ." 

"Well,"  said  Randolph  thoughtfully. 

"I  hope  you  can  do  something,"  put  in  Cope,  with 
fervor. 

"Well,"  said  Randolph  again. 

This  uncomfortable  and  unsatisfactory  dinner  of 
three  presently  drew  to  its  end.  "I'd  have  made  it 
four,"  said  Randolph  to  Foster,  a  day  or  two  later, 
"if  I'd  only  thought  of  it  in  time." 


254,  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

"/  don't  want  to  meet  them  again,"  returned  Foster 
quickly. 

"Well,"  said  Randolph,  "I've  no  fondness  for  the 
new  fellow,  myself;  but " 

"And  I  don't  care  about  the  other,  either." 

Randolph  sighed.  This  was  plainly  one  of  Foster's 
off  days.  The  only  wonder  was  he  had  not  more  of 
them.  He  sat  in  darkness,  with  few  diversions,  occu 
pations,  ameliorations.  His  mind  churned  mightily  on 
the  scanty  materials  that  came  his  way.  He  founded 
big  guesses  on  nothings ;  he  raised  vast  speculative 
edifices  on  the  slightest  of  premises.  To  dislike  a  man 
he  could  not  even  see !  Well,  the  blind — and  the  half- 
blind — had  their  own  intuitions  and  followed  their  own 
procedures. 

"Then  you  wouldn't  advise  me  to  speak  a  word  for 
him?— for  them?" 

"Certainly  not!"  rejoined  Foster,  with  all  prompt 
ness.  "They've  treated  you  badly.  They've  put  you 
off;  and  they  came,  finally,  only  because  they  counted 
on  getting  something  out  of  you." 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  say  that  of  Cope." 

"I  would.  And  I  do.  They're  completely  wrapped 
up  in  their  own  interests,  and  in  each  other;  and 
they're  coupled  to  get  anything  they  can  out  of  Num 
ber  Three.  Or  out  of  Number  Four.  Or  Five.  Or 
out  of  X, — the  world,  that  is  to  say." 

Randolph  shrugged.  This  was  one  of  Foster's  bad 
days  indeed. 

"And  what's  this  I  hear  about  Hortense?"  asked 
Foster,  with  bitterness. 


COPE  AS  A  GO-BETWEEN  255 

"That  won't  amount  to  much." 

"It  won't?  She's  out  in  the  open,  finally.  She 
took  that  place  for  a  month  with  one  express  object — 
to  get  him  there,  paint  or  no  paint.  She's  fretful  and 
cantankerous  over  every  day  of  delay,  and  soon  she'll 
be  in  an  undisguised  rage." 

"What  does  her  aunt  say  to  it?" 

"She's  beginning  to  be  vexed.  She's  losing  patience. 
She  thinks  it's  a  mistake — and  an  immodest  one.  She 
wants  to  send  her  away  for  a  visit.  To  think  of  it ! — 
as  soon  as  one  girl  lets  go  another  takes  hold, — and 
a  third  person  holds  on  through  all!" 

"Joe!    Joe!" 

But  Foster  was  not  to  be  stayed. 

"And  that  poetry  of  Carolyn's!  Medora  herself 
came  up  and  read  it  to  me.  It  was  a  'tribute,'  she 
thought !" 

"That  won't  amount  to  anything  at  all." 

"It  won't?  With  Hortense  scornfully  ridiculing  it, 
and  Carolyn  bursting  into  tears  before  she  can  make 
her  bolt  from  the  room,  and  Amy  wondering  whether, 
after  all  .  .  . !  If  things  are  as  bad  as  they  are 
for  me  up  here,  how  much  worse  must  they  be  for  the 
rest  of  them  below !  And  that  confounded  engagement 
has  made  it  still  worse  all  round !" 

Randolph  ran  his  palms  over  his  perplexed  temples. 
"Whose?" 

"Whose?  No  wonder  you  ask!  Engagements, 
then." 

"When  are  they  going  to  be  married?" 

"The  first  week  in  May,  I  hear.     But  Pearson  is 


256  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

trying  for  the  middle  of  April.     His  flat  is  taken." 
Foster  writhed  in  his  chair. 

"Why  do  they  care  for  him?"  he  burst  out.  "He's 
nothing  in  himself.  And  he  cares  nothing  for  them. 
And  he  cares  nothing  for  you,"  Foster  added  boldly. 
"All  he  has  thought  for  is  that  fellow  from  up  north." 

"Don't  ask  me  why  they  care,"  replied  Randolph, 
with  studied  sobriety.  "Why  does  anybody  care? 
And  for  what?  For  the  thing  that  is  just  out  of 
reach.  He's  cool;  he's  selfish;  he's  indifferent.  Yet, 
somehow,  frost  and  fire  join  end  to  end  and  make  the 
circle  complete."  He  fell  into  reflection.  "It's  all 
like  children  straining  upward  for  an  icicle,  and 
presently  slipping,  with  cracked  pates,  on  the  ice 
below." 

"Well,  my  pate  isn't  cracked." 

"Unless  it's  the  worst  cracked  of  all." 

Foster  tore  off  his  shade  and  threw  it  on  the  floor. 
"Mine?"  he  cried.  "Look  to  your  own!" 

"Joe!"  said  Randolph,  rising.  "That  won't  quite 
do!" 

"Be  a  fool  along  with  the  others,  if  you  will !"  re 
torted  Foster.  "Oh!"  he  went  on,  "haven't  I  seen  it 
all?  Haven't  I  felt  it  all?  You,  Basil  Randolph,  mind 
your  own  ways  too!" 

Randolph  thought  of  words,  but  held  his  tongue. 
Words  led  to  other  words,  and  he  might  soon  find 
himself  involved  in  what  would  seem  like  a  defense — 
an  attitude  which  he  did  not  relish,  a  course  of  which 
he  did  not  acknowledge  the  need.  "Poor  Joe!"  he 
thought;  "sitting  too  much  by  himself  and  following 


COPE  AS  A  GO-BETWEEN  257 

overclosely  the  art  of  putting  things  together — any 
how!"  Joe  Foster  must  have  more  company  and 
different  things  to  consider.  What  large  standard 
work — what  history,  biography,  or  bulky  mass  of 
memoirs  in  from  four  to  eight  volumes — would  be  the 
best  to  begin  on  before  the  winter  should  be  too  far 
spent  ? 

Four  or  five  days  later,  Randolph  wrote  to  Cope 
that  there  was  a  good  prospect  for  a  small  position 
in  the  administration  offices  of  the  University,  and  a 
week  later  Lemoyne  was  in  that  position.  Cope,  who 
recognized  Randolph's  handling  of  the  matter  as  a 
personal  favor,  replied  in  a  tone  of  some  warmth. 
"He's  really  a  very  decent  fellow,  after  all, — of  course 
he  is,"  pronounced  Randolph.  Lemoyne  himself  wrote 
more  tardily  and  more  coolly.  He  was  taking  time 
from  his  Psychology  and  from  "The  Antics  of  Anna- 
bella,"  it  appeared,  to  acquaint  himself  with  the  rou 
tine  of  his  new  position.  Randolph  shrugged:  he  must 
wait  to  see  which  of  the  three  interests  would  be  held 
the  most  important. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 
COPE  ESCAPES  A  SNARE 

LEMOYNE'S  first  week  in  his  new  berth  held  him 
rather  close,  and  Cope  was  able  to  move  about  with 
less  need  of  accounting  for  his  every  hour.  One  of 
his  first  concerns  was  to  get  over  his  sitting  with  Hor- 
tense  Dunton.  His  "sitting,"  he  said:  it  was  to  be  the 
first,  the  only  and  the  last. 

He  came  into  her  place  with  a  show  of  confidence, 
a  kind  of  blustery  bonhomie.  "I  give  you  an  hour 
from  my  treadmill,"  he  declared  brightly.  "So  many 
books,  and  such  dry  ones !" 

Hortense,  who  had  been  moping,  brightened  too. 
"I  thought  you  had  forgotten  me,"  she  said  chidingly. 
Yet  her  tone  had  less  acerbity  than  that  which  she 
had  employed,  but  a  few  moments  before,  to  address 
him  in  his  absence.  For  she  often  had  in  mind,  at 
intervals  longer  or  shorter,  Cope's  improvisation 
about  the  Sassafras — too  truly  that  dense-minded 
shrub  had  failed  to  understand  the  "young  ladies" 
and  their  "needs." 

"My  thesis,"  he  said.  "From  now  on,  it  must  take 
a  lot  of  my  thought  and  every  moment  of  my  spare 
time."  He  looked  at  the  waiting  canvas.  "Clinch  it 
to-day.  Hurry  it  through." 

He  spoke  writh  a  factitious  vivacity  which  almost 
258 


COPE  ESCAPES  A  SNARE  259 

gave  a  sense  of  chill.  She  looked  at  him  with  a  shade 
of  dissatisfaction  and  discomfort. 

"What !  must  it  all  be  done  in  a  drive  ?"  she  asked. 

"By  no  means.  Watch  me  relax.  Is  that  my  chair? 
See  me  drop  into  complete  physical  and  mental  pas 
sivity — the  kef  of  the  Arabs." 

He  mounted  the  model-throne,  sank  into  the  wide 
chair,  and  placed  his  hands  luxuriously  on  its  arms. 
His  general  pose  mattered  little:  she  had  not  gone 
beyond  his  head  and  shoulders. 

Hortense  stared.  Would  he  push  her  on  the  mo 
ment  into  the  right  mood?  Would  he  have  her  call  into 
instant  readiness  her  colors  and  brushes?  Why,  even 
a  modest  amateur  must  be  allowed  her  minutes  of 
preparation  and  approach. 

"Passivity?"  she  repeated,  beginning  to  get  under 
way.  "Shall  I  find  you  very  entertaining  in  that 
condition  ?" 

"Entertaining?  Me,  the  sitter?  Why,  I've  always 
heard  it  was  an  important  part  of  a  portrait-painter's 
work  to  keep  the  subject  interested  and  amused." 

He  smiled  in  his  cold,  distant  way.  The  north 
light  cut  across  the  forehead,  nose  and  chin  which 
made  his  priceless  profile.  The  canvas  itself,  done  on 
theory  in  a  lesser  light,  looked  dull  and  lifeless. 

Hortense  felt  this  herself.  She  did  not  see  how 
she  was  going  to  key  it  up  in  a  single  hour.  As  she 
considered  among  her  brushes  and  tubes,  she  began 
to  feel  nervous,  and  her  temper  stirred. 

"You  have  a  great  capacity  for  being  interested 
and  amused,"  she  said.  "Most  men  are  like  you.  Es- 


260  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

pecially  young  ones.  They  are  amused,  diverted,  en 
tertained — and  there  it  ends." 

Cope  felt  the  prick.  "Well,  we  are  bidden,"  he 
said;  "and  we  come.  Too  many  of  us  have  little  to 
offer  in  return,  except  appreciation  and  goodwill. 
How  better  appreciate  such  kindness  as  Mrs.  Phillips' 
than  by  gratefully  accepting  more  of  it?"  (Stilted 
copy-book  talk;  and  he  knew  it.) 

"You  haven't  been  accepting  much  of  it  lately," 
she  returned,  feeling  the  point  of  a  new  brush.  She 
spoke  with  the  consciousness  of  empty  evenings  that 
might  have  been  full. 

"Hardly,"  he  replied.  And  he  felt  that  this  one 
word  sufficed. 

"Well,  the  coast  will  be  clear  after  the  twentieth 
of  April." 

"That  is  the  date,  then,  is  it?"  The  more  he 
thought  of  the  impending  ceremony,  the  more  grateful 
he  was  for  his  escape.  Thankfulness  had  salved  the 
earlier  wound;  no  pain  now  came  from  his  touching 
it. 

"Yes;  on  that  day  the  house  will  see  the  last  of 
them." 

"The  wedding,  then,  will ?" 

"Yes.  Aunt  Medora  says,  'Why  go  to  Iowa? — 
you're  at  home  here.'  Why,  indeed,  drag  George 
away  out  to  Fort  Lodge?  Let  her  own  people,  who 
are  not  many,  come  to  us.  Aunt  will  do  everything, 
and  do  it  handsomely." 

She  slanted  her  palette  and  looked  toward  the  sky 
light.  Cope's  own  glance  swept  non-committally  the 


COPE  ESCAPES  A  SNARE  261 

green  burlap  walls.  Both  of  them  were  seeing  pic 
tures  of  the  wedding  preparations.  Hortense  saw  de 
livery-boys  at  the  front  door,  with  things  that  must 
be  held  to  the  light  or  draped  over  chairs.  She  saw 
George  haling  Amy  to  the  furniture-shops  and  to  the 
dealers  in  wall-paper.  She  saw  them  in  cosy  shaded 
confab  evening  after  evening,  in  her  aunt's  library. 
It  was  a  period  of  joy,  of  self-absorption,  of  unsettle- 
ment,  of  longing,  of  irritation,  of  exasperation — oh, 
would  it  never  end!  Cope  saw  a  long  string  of  gifts 
and  entertainments,  a  diamond  engagement-ring,  a 
lavishly-furnished  apartment  .  .  .  How  in  the 
world  could  he  himself  have  compassed  all  this?  And 
how  blessed  was  he  among  men  that  he  had  not  been 
obliged  to  try ! 

Hortense  went  through  some  motions  with  her 
brush,  yet  seemed  to  be  looking  beyond  him  rather 
than  at  him. 

"There  will  be  a  bridal-trip  of  a  week  or  so,"  she 
concluded ;  "and  they  will  be  in  their  new  home  on  the 
first  of  May." 

"Very  good,"  said  Cope.  He  thought  he  was  think 
ing  to  himself,  but  he  spoke  aloud.  "And  that  ends 
it."  This  last  he  really  did  say  to  himself. 

He  sank  more  comfortably  into  his  chair,  kept  his 
face  properly  immobile,  and  spoke  no  further  word. 
Hortense  brought  back  her  gaze  to  focus  and  worked 
on  for  a  little  time  in  silence.  The  light  was  good, 
her  palette  was  full,  her  brushes  were  well-chosen, 
her  eyes  were  intent  on  his  face.  It  was  a  handsome 
face,  displayed  to  the  best  advantage.  She  might 


262  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

look  as  long  as  she  liked,  and  a  long  look  preceded 
every  stroke. 

Presently  she  paused,  opening  her  eyes  wider  and 
holding  aloft  her  brush.  "There  will  be  a  bride's- 
maid,"  she  said. 

"The  deuce!"  he  thought.     "That  didn't  end  it!" 
But  he  said  nothing  aloud. 
,    "Guess   who!" 

"Why,  how  should  / ?" 

"Guess !"  she  cried  peremptorily,  in  a  tone  of  bitter 
derision.  "You  won't?  Well,  it's  Carolyn — our  poor, 
silly  Carolyn !  And  what  do  you  suppose  she  has 
started  in  to  do?  She  is  writing  an  epitha — an  epi- 
thal " 

" amium,"    contributed    Cope.    "An    epithala- 


"Yes,  an  epithala-mium !"  repeated  Hortense,  with 
an  outburst  of  jarring  laughter.  "Isn't  she  absurd! 
Isn't  she  ridiculous !" 

"Is  she?  Why,  it  seems  to  me  a  delicate  attention, 
a  very  sweet  thought."  If  Carolyn  could  make  any 
thing  out  of  Amy — and  of  George — why,  let  her  do 
it. 

"You  like  her  poetry!"  cried  Hortense  in  a  high, 
strained  voice.  "You  enjoy  her  epithalamiums,  and 
her — sonnets  .  .  ." 

Cope  flushed  and  began  to  grow  impatient.  "She 
is  a  sweet  girl,"  he  said;  "and  if  she  wishes  to  write 
verse  she  is  quite  within  her  rights." 

"  'Sweet' !  There  you  go  again  !  'Sweet' — twice. 
She  ought  to  know!" 


COPE  ESCAPES  A  SNARE  263 

"Perhaps  she  does  know.     Everybody  else  knows." 

"And  perhaps  she  doesn't !"  cried  Hortense.  "Tell 
her!  Tell  her!" 

Cope  stared.  "She  is  a  sweet  girl,"  he  repeated; 
"and  she  has  been  filling  very  discreetly  a  somewhat 
difficult  position " 

He  knew  something  of  the  suppressed  bitterness 
which,  in  subordinate  places,  was  often  the  lot  of  the 
pen.  He  found  himself  preferring,  just  here,  "pen" 
to  "typewriter":  he  would  give  Carolyn  a  touch  of 
idealization — though  she  had  afflicted  him  with  a  heavy 
stroke  of  embarrassment. 

"'Difficult  position'?"  shrilled  Hortense.  "With 
Aunt  Medora  the  very  soul  of  kindness?  I  like  that! 
Well,  if  you  want  to  rescue  her  from  her  difficult  posi 
tion,  do  it.  If  you  admire  her — and  love  her — tell 
her  so!  She'll  be  grateful — just  read  those  sonnets 
over  again !" 

Hortense  dropped  her  palette  and  brushes  and  burst 
into  outrageous  tears. 

Cope  sat  bolt  upright  in  that  spacious  chair.  "Tell 
her?  I  have  nothing  to  tell  her.  I  have  nothing  to 
tell  anyone !" 

His  resonant  words  cut  the  air.  They  uttered  de 
cision.  He  did  not  mean  to  make  the  same  mistake 
twice. 

Hortense  drew  across  her  eyes  an  apron  redolent 
of  turpentine  and  stepped  toward  the  throne. 

"Nothing?  Why  this  sudden  refuge  in  silence?" 
she  asked,  almost  truculently,  even  if  tremulously. 


264  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

"You  usually  find  enough  words — even  though  they 
mean  little." 

"I'm  afraid  I  do,"  he  admitted  cautiously. 

"You  have  nothing  to  tell  anyone?  Nothing  to  tell 
—me?" 

Cope  rose.  "Nothing  to  tell  anyone,"  he  repeated. 
"Nothing." 

"Then  let  me  tell  you  something."  There  was  an 
angry  thrill  in  her  voice.  "For  I  am  not  so  selfish 
and  cold-hearted  as  you  are.  I  have  seen  nobody  but 
you  all  these  months.  I  have  never  tried  harder  to 
please  anybody.  You  have  scarcely  noticed  me — you 
have  never  given  me  a  glance  or  a  thought.  You 
could  interest  yourself  in  that  silly  Amy  and  in  our 
foolish  Carolyn ;  but  for  me — me —  Nothing !" 

Cope  came  down  from  the  throne.  If  she  had  lavished 
her  maiden  thoughts  on  him,  by  day  or  evening  or  at 
night,  he  had  not  known  and  could  hardly  be  supposed 
to  know.  Indeed,  she  had  begun  by  treating  him 
with  a  cursory  roughness;  nor  had  he  noticed  any 
great  softening  later  on. 

"Listen,"  he  said.  Under  the  stress  of  embarrass 
ment  and  alarm  his  cold  blue  eyes  grew  colder  and  his 
delicate  nostrils  quivered  with  an  effect  a  little  too 
like  disdain.  "I  like  you  as  well  as  another ;  no  more, 
no  less.  I  am  in  no  position  to  think  of  love  and 
marriage,  and  I  have  no  inclination  that  way.  I  am 
willing  to  be  friends  with  everybody,  and  nothing 
more  with  anybody."  The  sentences  came  with  the 
cruel  detachment  of  bullets;  but,  "Not  again,  not 
twice,"  was  his  uppermost  thought.  Any  bluntness, 


COPE  ESCAPES  A  SNARE  265 

any  ruggedness,  rather  than  another  month  like  that 
of  the  past  holiday  season. 

He  took  a  step  away  and  looked  to  one  side,  toward 
the  couch  where  his  hat  and  coat  were  lying. 

"Go,  if  you  will,"  she  said.  "And  go  as  soon  as 
you  like.  You  are  a  contemptible,  cold-hearted  in- 
grate.  You  have  grudged  me  every  minute  of  your 
company,  everywhere — and  every  second  you  have 
given  me  here.  If  I  have  been  foolish  it  is  over  now, 
and  there  shall  be  nothing  to  record  my  folly."  She 
stepped  to  the  easel  and  hurled  the  canvas  to  the 
floor,  where  it  lay  with  palette  and  brushes. 

Cope  stood  with  his  hat  in  his  hand  and  his  coat 
over  his  arm.  He  seemed  to  see  the  open  volume  of 
some  "printed  play."  After  all,  there  was  a  type 
which,  even  under  emotional  stress,  gave  a  measure  of 
instinctive  heed  to  structure  and  cadence.  Well,  if 
there  was  relief  for  her  in  words,  he  could  stand  to 
hear  her  speak  for  a  moment  or  two  more,  not  longer. 

"One  word  yet,"  she  said  in  a  panting  voice.  "Your 
Arthur  Lemoyne.  That  preposterous  friendship  can 
not  go  on  for  long.  You  will  tire  of  him;  or  more 
likely  he  will  tire  of  you.  Something  different,  some 
thing  better  will  be  needed, — and  you  will  live  to  learn 
so.  I  should  be  glad  if  I  never  saw  either  one  of  you 
again !" 

She  turned  her  stormy  face  away,  and  Cope  slipped 
out  with  a  blended  sense  of  mortification,  pain  and 
relief. 


CHAPTER     XXVIII 
COPE  ABSENT  FROM  A  WEDDING 

COPE  went  out  on  the  square  with  his  being  a-tingle. 
If  Hortense,  on  another  occasion,  had  thrown  a  dash 
of  brine,  on  this  occasion  she  had  rubbed  in  the  salt 
itself.  And  he  had  struck  a  harsh  blow  in  turn;  the 
flat  of  his  mind  was  still  stinging,  as  if  half  the  shock 
of  the  blow  had  remained  behind.  "But  it  was  no  time 
for  half-measures,"  he  muttered  to  himself.  "Not 
again ;  not  twice !"  he  repeated. 

Hortense  remained  for  several  days  in  a  condition 
of  sullen  anger — she  was  a  cloud  lit  up  by  occasional 
unaccountable  flashes  of  temper.  "Whatever  in  the 
world  is  the  matter  with  her?"  asked  her  aunt  in 
more  directions  than  one.  And  Amy  Leffingwell,  bliss 
fully  busy  over  her  little  trousseau  and  her  selection  of 
china-patterns,  protested  with  wide-open,  inquiring 
blue  eyes  against  the  intrusion  of  such  a  spirit  at  such 
a  joyous  time. 

But  Hortense,  though  better  days  intervened  now 
and  then,  did  not  improve  essentially ;  and  she  con 
trived  at  the  climacteric  moment  of  Amy's  career  to 
make  herself  felt — unduly  felt — after  all. 

The  wedding  took  place  during  the  latter  half  of 
April,  as  demanded  by  the  enterprising  wooer.  Then 
there  would  be  a  rapid  ten-day  wedding- journey,  fol- 

266 


COPE  ABSENT  FROM  A  WEDDING       267 

lowed  by  a  prompt,  business-like  occupancy  of  the  new 
apartment  on  the  first  of  May  exactly. 

Pearson's  parents  prepared  to  welcome  Amy  hand 
somely  ;  and  her  own  people — some  of  them — came  on 
from  Iowa  to  attend  the  ceremony.  There  was  her 
mother,  who  had  been  rather  disconcerted  by  the  sud 
den  shift,  but  who  was  satisfied  with  George  Pearson 
the  moment  she  saw  him,  and  who  found  him  even  more 
vivid  and  agreeable  than  Amy's  photograph  of  him 
had  led  her  to  expect.  There  was  the  aunt,  who  had 
lived  a  bare,  starved  life,  and  who  luxuriated,  along 
with  her  sister,  in  the  splendor  of  the  Louis  Quinze 
chamber.  And  there  was  a  friendly,  wide-awake 
brother  of  fourteen  who  was  tucked  away  in  the  chintz 
room  up  stairs,  whence  he  issued  to  fraternize  in  the 
ballroom  with  Joe  Foster,  whose  exacerbated  spirit  he 
did  much  to  soothe. 

This  young  brother  was  alert,  cheery,  chatty.  He 
was  not  at  all  put  out  by  Foster's  wheeled  chair  and 
eyeshade,  nor  by  the  strange  contortions  which  Fos 
ter  went  through  when,  on  occasion,  he  left  the  chair 
for  a  couch  or  for  some  chair  of  ordinary  type.  He 
got  behind  the  wheels,  and  together  they  made  the 
tour  of  the  landscapes,  marines,  and  genre-pieces  which 
covered  the  walls.  The  boy  was  sympathetic,  with 
out  being  obtrusively  so,  and  his  comments  on  the 
paintings  were  confident  and  unconventional.  "So 
different  from  ce  cher  Pelouse,"  said  Foster,  with  a 
grimace.  He  enjoyed  immensely  the  fragmental  half- 
hours  given  him  through  those  two  days.  His  young 
companion  was  lavish  in  his  reports  on  life's  vast 


268  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

vicissitudes  at  Fort  Lodge,  and  was  always  ready  with 
comparisons  between  things  as  observed  in  his  home 
town  and  in  Churchton  itself.  He  came  as  a  tonic 
breeze;  and  the  evening  after  he  departed,  Foster, 
left  moping  alone  in  the  let-down  which  followed  the 
festivities,  said  to  himself  more  than  once,  "If  I  had 
had  a  boy,  I  should  have  wanted  him  just  like  Dick." 

Dick's  mother  and  aunt  stood  up  as  well  as  they 
could  against  the  bustling,  emphatic  geniality  of  Me- 
dora  Phillips;  and  they  were  able,  after  a  little,  to 
adjust  themselves  to  the  prosperity  of  the  Pearsons. 
These,  they  came  to  feel,  were  essentially  of  the  same 
origin  and  traditions  as  themselves:  just  plain  people 
who,  however,  had  settled  on  the  edge  of  the  Big 
Town  to  make  money  and  had  made  it.  Pearson  the 
elder  was  hardly  more  prepotent  than  Mr.  Lusk,  the 
banker  at  home.  George  himself  was  a  dashing  go- 
ahead:  if  he  turned  into  a  tired  business-man  his  wife 
would  know  how  to  divert  him. 

Medora  Phillips  provided  rice.  Also  she  satisfied 
herself  as  to  where,  if  the  newer  taste  were  not  too 
delicate,  she  could  put  her  hand  on  an  old  shoe.  She 
was  happy  to  have  married  off  Amy ;  she  would  be  still 
happier  once  Amy  got  away.  More  room  would  be 
left  for  other  young  people.  By  "other  young  people" 
she  meant,  of  course,  certain  young  men.  By  "cer 
tain  young  men"  she  thought  she  meant  Cope  and 
Lemoyne.  Of  course  she  meant  Cope  only. 

"If  Carolyn  keeps  amiable  and  if  Hortense  contrives 
to  regain  her  good-nature,  we  may  have  some  pleasant 
days  yet,"  she  mused. 


COPE  ABSENT  FROM  A  WEDDING        269 

But  Hortense  did  not  regain  her  good-nature;  she 
did  not  even  maintain  her  self-control.  In  the  end, 
the  ceremony  was  too  much  for  her.  George  and 
Amy  had  plighted  their  troth  in  a  floral  bower,  which 
ordinarily  was  a  baywindow,  before  a  minister  of  a 
denomination  which  did  not  countenance  robes  nor  a 
ritual  lifted  beyond  the  chances  of  wayward  improvi 
sation;  and  after  a  brief  reception  the  new  couple 
prepared  for  the  motor-car  dash  which  was  to  take 
them  to  a  late  train.  In  the  big  wide  hallway,  after 
Amy  had  kissed  Carolyn  and  thanked  her  for  her 
poem  and  was  preparing  for  the  shower  of  rice  which 
she  had  every  reason  to  think  she  must  face,  there  was 
a  burst  of  hysterical  laughter  from  somewhere  behind, 
and  Hortense  Dunton,  to  the  sufficing  words,  "O 
Bertram,  Bertram!"  emitted  with  sufficing  clearness, 
fainted  away. 

Her  words,  if  not  heard  by  all  the  company,  were 
heard  by  a  few  to  whom  they  mattered;  and  while 
Hortense,  immediately  after  the  departure  of  the 
happy  pair,  was  being  revived  and  led  away,  they  left 
occasion  for  thought.  Carolyn  Thorpe  cast  a  startled 
glance.  The  aunt  from  Iowa,  who  knew  that  Bertrams 
did  not  grow  on  every  bush,  and  whose  senses  the 
function  had  preternaturally  sharpened  for  any  ad 
dress  from  Romance,  seized  and  shook  her  sister's  arm ; 
and,  later  on,  in  a  Louis  Quinze  causeuse,  up  stairs, 
they  agreed  that  if  young  Cope  really  had  had  another 
claimant  on  his  attention,  it  was  all  the  better  that 
their  Amy  had  ended  by  taking  George.  And  Medora 
Phillips,  in  the  front  hall  itself 


270  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

Well,  to  Medora  Phillips,  in  the  front  hall,  much 
was  revealed  as  in  a  lightning-flash,  and  the  revelation 
was  far  from  agreeable.  What  advantage  in  Amy's 
departure  if  Hortense  continued  to  cumber  the 
ground?  Hortense  must  go  off  somewhere,  for  a  so 
journ  of  a  month  or  more,  to  recover  her  health  and 
spirits  and  to  let  the  house  recover  its  accustomed  tone 
of  cheer. 

Medora  forced  these  considerations  to  the  back 
of  her  mind  and  saw  most  of  her  guests  out  of  the 
house.  Toward  the  end  of  it  all  she  found  herself 
relaxing  in  the  library,  with  Basil  Randolph  in  the 
opposite  chair.  Randolph  himself  had  figured  in  the 
ceremony.  This  had  been  a  crude  imitation  of  a  time- 
hallowed  form  and  had  allowed  for  an  extemporaneous 
prayer  and  for  a  brief  address  to  the  young  couple; 
but  it  had  retained  the  familiar  inquiry,  "Who  giveth 
—  ?"  "Who  can  give?"  asked  Medora  of  Amy.  Poor 
Joe  was  rather  out  of  the  question,  and  Brother  Dick 
was  four  or  five  years  too  young.  Was  there,  then, 
anyone  really  available  except  that  kind  Mr.  Ran 
dolph?  So  Basil  Randolph,  after  remembering  Amy 
with  a  rich  and  handsome  present,  had  taken  on  a 
paternal  air,  had  stepped  forward  at  the  right  mo 
ment,  and  was  now  recovering  from  his  novel  experi 
ence. 

The  two,  as  they  sat  there,  said  little,  though  they 
looked  at  each  other  with  half-veiled,  questioning 
glances.  Medora,  indeed,  improvised  a  little  stretch 
of  silent  dialogue,  and  it  made  him  take  his  share. 
She  felt  dislocated,  almost  defeated.  Hortense's  per- 


COPE  ABSENT  FROM  A  WEDDING        271 

formance  had  set  her  to  thinking  of  Bertram  Cope, 
and  she  figured  the  same  topic  as  uppermost  in  the 
mind  of  Basil  Randolph. 

"Well,  you  have  about  beaten  me,"  she  said. 

"How  so?"  she  made  him  ask,  with  an  affectation  of 
simplicity. 

"You  know  well  enough,"  she  returned.  "You  have 
played  off  the  whole  University  against  my  poor  house, 
and  you  have  won.  Your  influence  with  the  president, 
your  brother  on  the  board  of  trustees  ...  If 

Bertram  Cope  has  any  gratitude  in  his  composition 
» 

"Oh,  well,"  she  let  him  say,  "I  don't  feel  that  I  'did 
much;  and  I'm  not  sure  I'm  glad  for  what  I  did  do." 

"You  may  regret  it,  of  course.  That  other  man  is 
an  uncertain  quantity." 

"Oh,  come,"  he  said;  "you've  had  the  inside  track 
from  the  very  start:  this  house  and  everything  in  it 

5> 

"You  have  a  house  of  your  own,  now." 

"Your  dinners  and  entertainments      .      .      ." 

"You  have  your  own  dinner-table." 

"Your  limousine,  your  chauffeur, — running  to  the 
opera  and  heaven  knows  where  else  .  .  ." 

"Taxis  can  always  be  had.  Yes,"  she  went  on, 
"you  have  held  the  advantage  over  a  poor  woman 
cooped  up  in  her  own  house.  While  I  have  had  to  stick 
here,  attending  to  my  housekeeping,  you  have  been 
careering  about  everywhere, — you  with  a  lot  of  part 
ners  and  clerks  in  your  office,  and  no  compulsion  to 
look  in  more  than  two  or  three  times  a  week.  Of 


272  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 


course  you  can  run  to  theatres  and  clubs.  I  wonder 
they  don't  dispense  with  you  altogether  !" 

"There's  the  advantage  of  a  business  arranged  to 
run  itself  —  so  far  as  7  am  concerned." 

"Yes,  you  have  had  the  world  to  range  through: 
shows  and  restaurants  ;  the  whole  big  city  ;  strolls  and 
excursions,  and  who  knows  what  beside  .  .  ." 

Thus  Medora  Phillips  continued  silently,  and  with 
no  exact  sense  of  justice,  to  work  up  her  grievance. 
Presently  she  surprised  Randolph  with  a  positive 
frown.  She  had  made  a  quick,  darting  return  to  Hor- 
tense. 

"I  shall  send  her  away,"  she  said  aloud.  The  girl 
might  join  her  studio  friend,  who  had  stopped  at 
Asheville  on  her  way  North,  and  stay  with  her  for  a 
few  weeks.  Yes,  Hortense  might  go  and  meet  the 
spring  —  or  even  the  summer,  if  that  must  be.  The 
spring  here  in  town  she  herself  would  take  as  it  came. 
"I  shall  welcome  a  few  free,  easy  breaths  after  this 
past  fortnight,"  she  finished  audibly. 

Randolph  squared  himself  with  her  mood  as  best 
he  could.  "You  are  tired  and  nervous,"  he  said  with 
banality.  "Get  the  last  of  us  out  and  go  to  bed.  I'll 
lead  the  way,  and  will  give  these  loiterers  as  marked 
an  example  as  possible." 

Medora  Phillips  hushed  down  her  house  finally  and 
went  thoughtfully  up  stairs  to  her  room.  Amy  had 
gone  off,  and  Hortense  was  sentenced  to  go.  There 
remained  only  Carolyn.  Was  there  any  threat  in  her 
and  her  sonnets? 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

COPE  AGAIN  IN  THE  COUNTRY 

» 

MEDORA  treated  Hortense  to  a  few  cautious  sound 
ings,  decided  that  another  locale  was  the  thing  to  do 
her  good,  and  sent  her  South  forthwith. 

"It's  a  low  latitude,"  she  said  to  herself;  "but  it's 
a  high  altitude.  The  season  is  late,  but  she  won't 
suffer." 

Hortense,  who  had  been  sullen  and  fractious,  met  her 
aunt  half-way,  and  agreed  passively  when  Medora 
said: 

"It  will  benefit  you  to  see  the  spring  come  on  in 
a  new  scene  and  in  a  new  fashion.  You  will  find  the 
mountains  more  interesting  than  the  dunes."  So  Hor 
tense  packed  her  things  and  joined  her  friend  for  a 
brief  sojourn  in  sight  of  the  Great  Smokies. 

Thus,  when  Medora  herself  went  forth  to  meet  the 
spring  among  the  sand-hills,  she  had  only  Carolyn  and 
the  other  members  of  her  domestic  staff.  Yet  no 
simplest  week-end  without  a  guest  or  so,  and  she 
asked  Cope  to  accompany  them. 

"You  need  it,"  she  told  him  bluntly ;  " — you  need  a 
change,  however  slight  and  brief.  You  are  positively 
thin.  You  make  me  wish  that  thesises " 

"Theses,"  Cope  corrected  her,  rather  spiritlessly. 
273 


274  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

" that  theses,  then,  had  never  been  invented. 

To  speak  familiarly,  you  are  almost  'peaked.'  " 

Cope,  with  the  first  warm  days,  had  gone  back  to 
the  blue  serge  suit  of  the  past  autumn,  and  he  filled  it 
even  less  well  than  before.  And  his  face  was  thin  to 
correspond. 

"Besides,"  she  went  on,  "we  need  you.  It  will  be  a 
kind  of  camping-out  for  a  day  or  two — merely  that. 
We  must  have  your  help  to  pitch  the  tent,  so  to  speak, 
and  to  pick  up  firewood,  and  to  fry  the  bacon.  .  .  . 
And  this  time,"  she  added,  "you  shall  not  have  that 
long  tiresome  trip  by  train.  There  will  be  room  in  the 
car." 

She  did  not  attempt  to  make  room  for  Lemoyne. 
She  was  glad  to  have  no  need  to  do  so ;  Lemoyne  was 
deeply  engrossed  otherwise —  "Annabella"  and  her 
"antics"  were  almost  ready  for  the  public  eye.  The 
first  of  May  would  see  the  performance,  and  the 
numerous  rehearsals  were  exacting,  whether  as  re 
garded  the  effort  demanded  or  the  time.  Every  spare 
hour  was  going  into  them,  as  well  as  many  an  hour 
that  could  hardly  be  spared.  Lemoyne,  who  had  been 
cast  originally  for  a  minor  female  part,  now  found 
himself  transferred,  through  the  failure  of  a  principal, 
to  a  more  important  one.  For  him,  then,  rehearsals 
were  more  exigent  than  ever.  He  cut  his  Psychology 
once  or  twice,  nor  could  he  succeed,  during  office  hours, 
in  keeping  his  mind  on  office-routine.  His  superiors 
became  impatient  and  then  protestant.  The  annual 
spring  dislocation  of  ordered  student  life  was  indeed 
a  regular  feature  of  the  year's  last  term ;  yet  to  push 


COPE  AGAIN  IN  THE  COUNTRY          275 

indulgence  as  far  as  Arthur  Lemoyne  was  pushing 
it ! 

Cope  was  concerned;  then  worried.  "Arthur,"  he 
said,  "be  reasonable  about  this.  You've  got  real  work 
to  do,  remember." 

But  Lemoyne's  real  work  was  in  the  musical  comedy. 
"This  is  the  biggest  chance  I've  ever  had  in  my  life," 
he  declared,  "and  I  don't  want  to  lose  out  on  it." 

So  Cope  rolled  away  to  the  dunes  and  left  Lemoyne 
behind  for  one  Saturday  night  rehearsal  the  more. 

Duneland  gave  him  a  tonic  welcome.  Under  a  breezy 
sky  the  far  edge  of  the  lake  stood  out  clear.  Along  its 
nearer  edge  the  vivacious  waves  tumbled  noisily.  The 
steady  pines  were  welcoming  the  fresh  early  foliage  of 
such  companions  as  dressed  and  undressed  in  accord 
with  the  calendar ;  the  wrecked  trunks  which  had  given 
up  life  and  its  leafy  pomps  seemed  somehow  less  sombre 
and  stark;  and  in  the  threatened  woodlands  behind 
the  hills  a  multiplicity  of  small  new  greeneries  stirred 
the  autumn's  dead  leaves  and  brightened  up  the  thick 
ets  of  shrubbery.  The  arbutus  had  companioned  the 
hepatica,  and  the  squads  of  the  lupines  were  busily 
preparing  their  panoply  of  lavender-blue  racemes. 
Nature  was  breaking  bounds.  On  the  inland  horizon 
rose  the  vast  bulk  of  the  prison.  As  on  other  ex 
cursions,  nobody  tried  too  hard  to  see  it. 

"It's  all  too  lovely,"  exclaimed  Medora  Phillips. 
"And  what  is  quite  as  good,"  she  was  able  to  declare, 
"the  house  itself  is  all  right."  Winter  had  not  weak 
ened  its  roof  nor  wrenched  away  its  storm-windows; 
no  irresponsible  wayfarer  had  used  it  for  a  lodging, 


276  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

nor  had  any  casual  marauder  entered  to  despoil.  Me- 
dora  directed  the  disposition  of  the  hamper  of  food 
with  a  relieved  air  and  sent  Cope  down  with  Peter 
for  an  armful  or  two  of  driftwood  from  the  assertive 
shore. 

"And  you,  Carolyn,"  she  said,  "see  if  the  oil-stove 
will  really  go." 

Down  on  the  beach  itself,  where  the  past  winter's 
waste  was  still  profusely  spread,  Cope  rose  to  the 
greening  hills,  to  the  fresh  sweep  of  the  wind,  and  to 
the  sun-shot  green  and  purple  streakings  over  the 
water.  The  wind,  in  particular,  took  its  own  way : 
dry  light  sand,  blown  from  higher  shelvings,  striped 
the  dark  wet  edges  of  the  shore;  and  every  bending 
blade  of  sand-grass  drew  a  circle  about  itself  with  its 
own  revolving  tip. 

Cope  let  the  robust  and  willing  Peter  pick  up  most 
of  the  firewood  and  himself  luxuriated  in  the  spacious 
world  round  about  him.  Yes,  a  winter  had  flown — 
or,  at  any  rate,  had  passed — and  here  he  was  again. 
There  had  been  annoyances,  but  now  he  felt  a  wide 
and  liberal  relief.  Here,  for  example,  was  the  special 
stretch  of  shore  on  which  Amy  Leffingwell  had  praised 
his  singing  and  had  hinted  her  desire  to  accompany 
him, — but  never  mind  that.  Farther  on  was  the  par 
ticular  tract  where  Hortense  Dunton  had  pottered 
with  her  water-colors  and  had  harried  him  with  the 
heroines  of  eighteenth  century  fiction, — but  never 
mind  that,  either.  All  those  things  were  past,  and  he 
was  free.  Nobody  remained  save  Carolyn  Thorpe,  an 
unaggressive  girl  with  whom  one  could  really  trust 


COPE  AGAIN  IN  THE  COUNTRY          277 

oneself  and  with  whom  one  could  walk,  if  required,  in 
comfort  and  content.  Cope  threw  up  his  head  to  the 
hills  and  threw  out  his  chest  to  the  winds,  and  laid 
quick  hands  on  a  short  length  of  weather-beaten  hem 
lock  plank.  "Afraid  I'm  not  holding  up  my  end,"  he 
said  to  Peter. 

At  the  house  again,  he  found  that  Carolyn  had 
brought  the  oil-stove  back  into  service,  and,  with 
Helga,  had  cast  the  cloth  over  the  table  and  had  set 
some  necessary  dishes  on  it.  He  fetched  a  pail  or  two 
of  water  from  the  pump,  and  each  time  placed  a  fresh 
young  half-grown  sassafras  leaf  on  the  surface.  "The 
trade-mark  of  our  bottling-works,"  he  said  facetious 
ly;  "to  show  that  our  products  are  pure."  And 
Carolyn,  despite  his  facetiousness,  felt  more  than  ever 
that  he  might  easily  become  a  poet.  Medora  viewed 
the  floating  leaves  with  indulgent  appreciation.  "But 
don't  let's  cumber  ourselves  with  many  cares,"  she 
suggested ;  "we  are  here  to  make  the  best  of  the  after 
noon.  Let's  out  and  away, — the  sooner  the  better." 

The  three  soon  set  forth  for  a  stroll  through 
spring's  reviving  domain.  Cope  walked  between  Me 
dora  and  Carolyn,  or  ahead  of  them,  impartially 
sweeping  away  twigs  and  flowering  branches  from  be 
fore  their  faces.  The  young  junipers  were  putting 
forth  tender  new  tips ;  the  bright  leaves  of  the  sassa 
fras  shone  forth  against  the  pines.  Above  the  newly- 
rounded  tops  of  the  oaks  and  maples  in  the  valley  be 
low  them  the  Three  Witches  rose  gauntly ;  and  off  on 
their  far  hill  the  two  companion  pines — (how  had  he 
named  them?  Romeo  and  Juliet?  Pelleas  and  Meli- 


278  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

sande?) — still  lay  their  dark  heads  together  in  mys 
terious  confidences  under  the  heightening  glow  of 
the  late  afternoon  sun.  Carolyn,  looked  from  them 
back  to  Cope  and  gave  him  a  shy  smile. 

He  did  not  quite  smile  back.  Carolyn  was  well 
enough,  however.  She  was  suitably  dressed  for  a 
walk.  Her  shoes  were  sensible,  and  so  was  her  hair. 
Amy  had  run  to  fluffiness.  Hortense  had  often  favored 
heavy  waves  and  emphatic  bandeaux.  But  Carolyn's 
hair  was  drawn  back  plainly  from  her  forehead,  and 
was  gathered  in  a  small,  low-set  knot.  "Still,  it's  no 
concern  of  mine,"  he  reminded  himself,  and  walked  on 
ahead. 

Carolyn's  sensible  shoes  brought  her  back,  with  the 
others,  at  twilight.  The  three  took  up  rather  orna 
mentally  (with  aid  from  Peter  and  Helga)  the  lighter 
details  of  housekeeping.  Toward  the  end  of  the  stroll, 
Cope  and  Carolyn, — perhaps  upon  the  mere  uncon 
scious  basis  of  youth, — had  rather  fallen  in  together, 
and  Medora  Phillips,  once  or  twice,  had  had  to  safe 
guard  for  herself  her  face  and  eyesight  from  the 
young  trees  that  bordered  their  path.  But  that  eve 
ning,  as  they  sat  on  a  settle  before  the  driftwood  fire, 
Medora  took  pains  to  place  herself  in  the  middle. 
Carolyn  was  a  sweet  young  flower,  doubtless — hum 
bler,  possibly,  than  Amy  or  Hortense;  yet  she  too 
perhaps  must  be  extirpated,  gently  but  firmly,  from 
the  garden  of  desire. 

"You  look  better  already,"  Medora  said  to  Cope. 
"You'll  go  back  to-morrow  a  new  man." 

Her  elbow  was  on  the  back  of  the  settle  and  close 


COPE  AGAIN  IN  THE  COUNTRY          279 

to  his  shoulder.  His  face  caught  the  glow  from  the 
fire. 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right,  I  assure  you,"  he  said. 

"You  do  look  better,"  observed  Carolyn  on  her  own 
account.  "This  air  is  everything.  Only  a  few  hours 
of  it " 

"Another  bit  of  wood  on  the  fire,  if  you  please, 
Carolyn,"  said  her  patroness. 

"Let  me  do  it,"  said  Cope.  He  rose  quickly  and 
laid  on  a  stick  or  two.  He  remained  standing  on  the 
edge  of  the  glow.  He  hoped  nobody  would  say  again 
that  he  was  looking  rather  thin  and  pale. 

"And  what  is  Mr.  Lemoyne  doing  this  evening?" 
presently  asked  Mrs.  Phillips  in  a  dreamy  under 
tone.  Her  manner  was  casual  and  negligent ;  her 
voice  was  low  and  leisurely.  She  seemed  to  place 
Lemoyne  at  a  distance  of  many,  many  leagues.  "Re 
hearsing,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Cope.  "This  new  play  has  absorbed 
him  completely." 

"He  will  do  well?" 

"He  always  does.     He  always  has." 

""Men  in  girls'  parts  are  so  amusing,"  said  Carolyn. 
"Their  walk  is  so  heavy  and  clumsy,  even  if  their 
dancing  isn't.  And  when  they  speak  up  in  those  big 
deep  bass  and  baritone  voices  .  .  . !" 

"Arthur  will  speak  in  a  light  tenor." 

"Will  his  walk  be  heavy  and  clumsy?"  asked  Mrs. 
Phillips. 

"He  is  an  artist,"  replied  Cope. 

"Not  too  much  of  one,  I  trust,"  she  returned.     "I 


280  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

confess  I  like  boys  best  in  such  parts  when  they 
frankly  and  honestly  seem  to  be  boys.  That's  half  the 
fun — and  nine-tenths  of  the  taste." 

"Taste?" 

"Yes,  taste.  Short  for  good  taste.  There's  a  great 
deal  of  room  for  bad.  A  thing  may  be  done  too 
thoroughly.  Once  or  twice  I've  seen  it  done  that 
way,  by — artists." 

Cope,  in  the  half-light,  seemed  rather  unhappy. 

"He  finds  time  for — for  all  this — this  technique?" 
Mrs.  Phillips  asked. 

"He's  very  clever,"  replied  Cope,  rather  unhappy 
still.  "It  does  take  time,  of  course.  I'm  concerned," 
he  added. 

"About  his  other  work?" 

"Yes."     He  stepped  aside  a  little  into  the  shadow. 

"Come  back  to  your  place,"  said  Medora  Phillips. 
"You  look  quite  spectral." 

Cope,  with  a  light  sigh,  returned  to  his  post  on 
the  settle  and  to  his  share  in  the  firelight.  Silence 
fell.  From  far  below  were  heard  the  active  waves, 
moaning  themselves  to  rest.  And  a  featureless  eve 
ning  moved  on  slowly. 


CHAPTER  XXX 
COPE  AS  A  HERO 

AT  TEN  o'clock  Cope  found  himself  tucked  away  in 
a  small  room  on  the  ground  floor.  It  had  been  left 
quite  as  planned  and  constructed  by  the  original 
builder  of  the  house.  It  was  cramped  and  narrow, 
with  low  ceiling  and  one  small  window.  It  gave  on  a 
short  side-porch  which  was  almost  too  narrow  to  sit 
on  and  which  was  apropos  of  no  special  prospect. 
Doubtless  more  than  one  stalwart  youth  had  slept 
there  before  him, — a  succession  of  farmers'  sons  who 
fed  all  day  on  the  airs  and  spaces  of  the  great  out- 
of-doors,  and  who  needed  little  of  either  through  a 
short  night's  rest.  It  was  more  comfortable  at  the 
end  of  April  than  other  guests  had  found  it  in  mid- 
August. 

A  little  before  eleven  he  awoke  the  house  with  a 
loud,  ringing  cry.  Some  one  outside  had  passed  his 
narrow  window;  feet  were  heard  on  the  back  porch 
and  hands  at  the  kitchen  door.  Peter  was  out  as 
quickly  as  Cope  himself;  and  the  women,  in  differing 
stages  of  dress  and  half-dress,  followed  at  once. 

While  Mrs.  Phillips  and  Carolyn  were  clinging  to 
Cope,  who  had  rushed  out  in  undershirt  and  trousers, 
Peter  had  a  short  tussle  on  the  porch  with  the  in 
truder.  He  came  in  showing  a  scratch  or  two  on 

281 


282  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

his  face,  and  he  reported  the  pantry  window  broken 
open. 

"Some  tramp  along  the  beach  saw  our  lights," 
suggested  Carolyn. 

"What  was  he  like,  Peter?"  asked  Mrs.  Phillips. 

"I  couldn't  make  out  in  the  dark,"  Peter  replied. 
"But  he  fought  hard  for  what  he  took,  and  he  got 
away  with  it."  He  felt  the  marks  on  his  face.  "Must 
have  been  a  pretty  hungry  man." 

"It  was  some  refugee  hiding  in  my  woods,"  said 
Medora  Phillips.  She  made  her  real  thought  no 
plainer.  She  never  liked  to  see,  in  her  walks,  that 
distant  prison,  and  she  never  spoke  of  it  to  her  guests ; 
but  the  fancy  of  some  escaped  convict  lurking  below 
among  her  thickets  was  often  present  in  her  mind. 

Her  fancy  was  now  busy  with  some  burglar,  or 
even  some  murderer,  who  had  made  his  bolt  for  lib 
erty;  and  she  clung  informally  to  the  clarion-voiced 
Cope  as  to  a  savior.  She  saw,  with  displeasure,  that 
Carolyn  was  disposed  to  cling  too.  She  asked  Caro 
lyn  to  control  herself  and  told  her  the  danger  was 
over;  she  even  requested  her  to  return  to  her  room. 
But  Carolyn  lingered. 

Medora  herself  stood  with  Cope  in  the  light  of  the 
dying  fire.  She  was  dressed  almost  as  inadequately 
as  he,  but  she  felt  that  she  must  cling  tremblingly 
to  him  and  thank  him  for  something  or  other. 

"I  don't  know  what  you've  saved  us  from,"  she 
panted.  "We  may  owe  our  very  lives  to  you!" 

Peter,  in  the  background,  again  thoughtfully  felt 
his  face  and  became  conscious  of  a  growing  ache  in 


COPE  AS  A  HERO  283 

the  muscles  of  his  arms.  He  retired,  with  a  smile, 
to  a  still  more  distant  plane.  The  regular  did  the 
work  and  the  volunteer  got  the  praise. 

Mrs.  Phillips  presently  gave  up  her  drooping  hold 
on  the  reluctant  Cope  and  called  Peter  forward.  "Is 
anything  missing?"  she  asked. 

"Only  part  of  the  breakfast,  I  expect,"  said  Peter, 
with  a  grin.  "And  maybe  some  of  the  lunch.  He 
surely  was  a  hungry  man !" 

"Well,  we  sha'n't  starve.  See  to  all  the  doors  and 
windows  before  you  go  back  to  bed." 

But  going  back  to  bed  was  the  one  thing  that  she 
herself  felt  unable  to  do.  She  asked  Carolyn  to  bring 
her  a  wrap  of  some  kind  or  other,  and  sat  down  on 
the  settle  to  talk  it  over.  Cope  had  modestly  slipped 
on  a  coat.  The  fire  was  dying — that  was  the  only 
difference  between  twelve  o'clock  and  ten. 

"If  I  had  known  what  was  going  to  happen,"  de 
clared  Medora  volubly,  "I  never  could  have  gone  to 
bed  at  all!  And  to  think" — here  she  left  Carolyn's 
end  of  the  settle  and  drew  nearer  to  Cope's — "that  I 
should  ever  have  even  thought  of  coming  out  here 
without  a  man !" 

She  now  rated  her  midnight  intruder  as  a  mur 
derer,  and  believed  more  devoutly  than  ever  that  Cope 
had  saved  all  their  lives.  Cope,  who  know  that  he  had 
contributed  nothing  but  a  loud  pair  of  lungs,  began 
to  feel  rather  foolish. 

Nor  did  the  anomalous  situation  commend  itself  in 
any  degree  to  his  taste.  But  it  hit  Medora  Phillips' 
taste  precisely,  and  she  continued  to  sit  there,  press- 


284-  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

ing  an  emotional  enjoyment  from  it.  An  hour  passed 
before  her  excitement — an  excitement  kept  up,  per 
haps,  rather  factitiously — was  calmed,  and  she  trusted 
herself  back  in  her  own  room. 

Breakfast  was  a  scanty  affair, — it  must  be  that 
if  anything  was  to  be  left  over  for  lunch.  While  they 
were  busy  with  toast  and  coffee  voices  were  heard  in 
the  woods — loud  cries  in  call  and  answer. 

"There!"  said  Medora,  setting  down  her  cup;  "I 
knew  it !" 

Presently  two  men  came  climbing  up  to  the  house, 
while  the  voices  of  others  were  still  audible  in  the 
humpy  thickets  below. 

The  men  were  part  of  a  search-party,  of  course, — 
a  posse;  and  they  wanted  to  know  whether  .  .  . 

"He  tried  to  break  in,"  said  Medora  Phillips 
eagerly;  "but  this  gentleman  .  .  ." 

She  turned  appreciatively  to  Cope.  Carolyn,  really 
impressed  by  her  well-sustained  seriousness  and  ardor, 
almost  began  to  believe  that  they  owed  their  lives  to 
Bertram  Cope  alone. 

"Was  he  a — murderer?"  asked  Medora. 

The  men  looked  serious,  but  made  no  categorical 
reply.  They  glanced  at  the  wrecked  pantry  win 
dow,  and  they  looked  with  more  intentness  at  the 
long  sliding  footprints  which  led  away,  down  the  half- 
bare  sand-slope.  Then  they  slid  down  themselves. 

Medora  asked  Carolyn  to  do  what  she  could  toward 
constructing  a  lunch  and  then  walked  down  to  the 
shore  with  Cope  to  compose  her  nerves.  No  stroll 
today  along  the  ridged  amphitheatre  of  the  hills, 


COPE  AS  A  HERO  285 

whence  the  long,  low  range  of  buildings,  under  that 
tall  chimney,  was  so  plainly  in  view.  Still  less  relish 
ing  the  idea  of  a  tramp  through  the  woods  them 
selves,  the  certain  haunt — somewhere — of  some  skulk 
ing  desperado.  No,  they  would  take  the  shore  itself 
— open  to  the  wide  firmament,  clear  of  all  snares,  and 
free  from  every  disconcerting  sight. 

"Poor  Carolyn!"  said  Medora  presently.  "How 
fluttered  and  inefficient  she  was !  A  good  secretary 
— in  a  routine  way — but  so  lacking  in  initiative  and 
self-possession !" 

Cope's  look  tended  to  become  a  stare.  He  thought 
that  Carolyn  had  been  in  pretty  fair  control  of  her 
self, — had  been  less  fluttery  and  excited,  indeed,  than 
her  employer. 

But  Medora  had  been  piqued,  the  night  before,  by 
Carolyn's  tendency  to  linger  on  the  scene  and  to  help 
skim  the  emotional  cream  from  the  situation. 

"And  in  such  dishabille,  too !  I  hope  you  don't 
think  she  seemed  immodest?" 

But  Cope  had  given  small  heed  to  their  dress,  or 
to  their  lack  of  it.  In  fact,  he  had  noticed  little  if 
any  difference  between  them.  He  only  knew  that  he 
had  felt  a  degree  more  comfortable  after  getting  his 
own  coat  on. 

"Carolyn  understands  her  place  pretty  well," 
mused  Medora.  "Yet  .  .  ." 

"Anybody  might  be  excused  for  looking  anyhow, 
at  such  a  time,"  observed  Cope,  fending  off  the  in 
trusion  of  a  new  set  of  considerations;  "and  in  such 
a  sudden  stir.  I  hope  nobody  noticed  how  I  looked !" 


286  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

"Well,  you  were  noticeable,"  declared  Medora,  with 
some  archness.  She  had  been  conscious  enough  of  his 
spare  waist,  his  sinewy  arms,  his  swelling  chest.  "It 
was  easy  enough  to  see  where  the  noise  came  from," 
she  said,  looking  him  over. 

"Yes,  I  supplied  the  noise — and  that  only.  It  was 
Peter,  please  remember,  who  supplied  the  muscle." 

She  declined  to  let  her  mind  dwell  on  Peter.  Peter 
possessed  no  charm.  Besides,  he  was  prosaically  on 
the  payroll. 

They  continued  to  saunter  along  the  sand.  Yes 
terday's  sparse  clouds  had  vanished,  along  with  much 
of  yesterday's  wind.  The  waters  that  had  tumbled 
and  vociferated  now  merely  murmured.  The  lake 
stood  calmly  blue,  and  the  new  green  was  thickening 
on  the  hills.  Confident  birds  flitted  busily  among  the 
trees  and  shrubs.  Spring  was  disclosed  in  its  most 
alluring  mood. 

Suddenly  three  or  four  figures  appeared  on  the 
beach,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away.  They  had  descended 
through  one  of  the  sandy  and  ravaged  channelings 
which  broke  at  intervals  the  regulated  rim  of  the  hills, 
and  they  came  on  toward  our  two  strollers.  Medora 
closed  her  eyes  to  peer  at  them.  "Are  they  marching 
a  prisoner?"  she  asked. 

"They  all  appear  to  be  walking  free." 

"Are  they  carrying  knapsacks?" 

"Khaki,  puttees, — and  knapsacks,  I  think." 

"Some  university  men  said  they  might  happen  along 
to-day.  If  they  really  have  knapsacks,  and  anything 
to  eat  in  them,  they're  welcome.  Otherwise,  we  had 


COPE  AS  A  HERO  287 

better  hide  quick — and  hope  they'll  lose  the  place 
and  pass  us  by." 

One  of  the  advancing  figures  lifted  a  semaphoric 
arm.  "Too  late,"  said  Cope;  "they  recognize  you." 

"Then  we'll  walk  on  and  meet  them,"  declared  Me- 
dora. 

The  newcomers  were  young  professors  and  gradu 
ate  students.  They  were  soon  in  possession  of  the 
thrilling  facts  of  the  past  night,  and  one  of  them 
offered  to  be  a  prisoner,  if  a  prisoner  was  desired. 
When  they  heard  how  Bertram  Cope  had  saved  the 
lives  of  defenseless  women  in  a  lonely  land,  they  in 
clined  to  smile.  Two  of  them  had  been  present  on 
another  shore  when  Cope  had  "saved"  Amy  Leffing- 
well  from  a  watery  death,  and  they  knew  how  far 
heroics  might  be  pushed  by  women  who  were  willing 
to  idealize.  Cope  saw  their  smiles  and  felt  that  he 
had  fumbled  an  opportunity:  when  he  might  have 
been  a  truncheon,  he  had  been  only  a  megaphone. 

The  new  arrivals,  after  climbing  the  sandy  rise  to 
the  house,  were  shown  the  devastated  kitchen  and 
were  asked  to  declare  what  provisions  they  carried. 
They  had  enough  food  for  their  own  needs  and  a 
trifle  to  spare.  Lunch  might  be  managed,  but  any 
thought  of  a  later  meal  was  out  of  the  question. 
"We'll  start  back  at  four-thirty,"  said  Medora  to 
Peter.  "Meanwhile" — to  the  college  men — "the 
world  is  ours." 

After  lunch  the  enlarged  party  walked  forth  again. 
Mrs.  Phillips  had  old  things  to  show  to  fresh  eyes: 
she  formed  the  new  visitors  into  a  compact  little 


288  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

group  and  let  them  see  how  good  a  guide  she  could 
be.  Cope  and  Carolyn  strolled  negligently — even  un- 
systematically — behind.  Once  or  twice  the  personally 
conducted  looked  back. 

"I  hope  she  won't  tell  them  again  how  I  came  to 
the  rescue,"  said  Cope.  "It  makes  a  man  feel  too  flat 
for  words.  Anybody  might  think,  to  hear  her  go  on, 

that  I  had  saved  you  all  from  robbery  and  murder 
» 

"Why,  but  didn't  you  ?"  inquired  Carolyn  seriously. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 
COPE  GETS  NEW  LIGHT  ON  HIS  CHUM 

COPE  had  the  luck  to  get  back  to  Churchton  with 
little  further  in  the  way  of  homage.  He  was  careful 
with  Carolyn;  she  had  perhaps  addressed  him  in  a 
sonnet,  and  she  might  go  on  and  address  him  in  an 
ode.  He  thought  he  had  done  nothing  to  deserve  the 
one,  and  he  would  do  almost  anything  to  escape  the 
other.  She  was  a  nice  pleasant  quiet  girl;  but  nice 
pleasant  quiet  girls  were  beginning  to  do  such  equiv 
ocal  things  in  poetical  print ! 

Having  returned  to  town  by  a  method  that  put  the 
minimum  tax  on  his  powers,  Cope  was  in  shape,  next 
day,  for  an  hour  on  the  faculty  tennis-courts.  He 
played  with  no  special  skill  or  vigor,  but  he  made 
a  pleasing  picture  in  his  flannels;  and  Carolyn,  who 
happened  to  pass — who  passed  by  at  about  five  in 
the  afternoon,  .lingered  for  the  spectacle  and  thought 
of  two  or  three  lines  to  start  a  poem  with. 

Cope,  unconscious  of  this,  presently  turned  his  at 
tention  to  Lemoyne,  who  was  on  the  eve  of  his  first 
dress  rehearsal  and  who  was  a  good  deal  occupied  with 
wigs  and  lingerie.  Here  one  detail  leads  to  another, 
and  anyone  who  goes  in  wholeheartedly  may  go  in 
dreadfully  deep.  Their  room  came  to  be  strown  with 
all  the  disconcerting  items  of  a  theatrical  wardrobe. 

289 


290  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

Cope  soon  reached  the  point  where  he  was  not  quite 
sure  that  he  liked  it  all,  and  he  began  to  develop  a  dis 
taste  for  Lemoyne's  preoccupation  with  it.  He  came 
home  one  afternoon  to  find  on  the  corner  of  his  desk 
a  long  pair  of  silk  stockings  and  a  too  dainty  pair  of 
ladies'  shoes.  "Oh,  Art!"  he  protested.  And  then, 
— not  speaking  his  essential  thought, —  "Aren't  these 
pretty  expensive?" 

"The  thing  has  got  to  be  done  right,"  returned 
Lemoyne.  "Feet  are  about  the  first  thing  they  no 
tice." 

At  the  actual  performance  Lemoyne's  feet  were 
noticed,  certainly ;  though  perhaps  not  more  than  his 
head.  His  wig,  as  is  usually  the  case  with  dark  peo 
ple,  was  of  a  sunny  blond  hue.  Its  curls,  as  palpably 
artificial  as  they  were  voluminous,  made  his  eyes  look 
darker  and  somehow  more  liquid  than  ever.  The 
contrast  was  piquant,  almost  sensational.  Of  course 
he  had  sacrificed,  for  the  time,  his  small  moustache. 
Lemoyne  was  not  "Annabella"  herself,  but  only  her 
chief  chum ;  yet  shorter  skirts  and  shorter  sleeves  and 
a  deliberately  assumed  feminine  air  helped  distinguish 
him  from  the  hearty  young  lads  who  manoeuvred  in 
the  chorus. 

Just  who  are  those  who  enjoy  the  epicene  on  the 
stage?  Not  many  women,  one  prefers  to  think;  and 
surely  it  arouses  the  impatience,  if  not  worse,  of  many 
men.  Most  amateur  drama  is  based,  perhaps,  on  the 
attempted  "escape":  one  likes  to  bolt  from  his  own 
day,  his  own  usual  costume,  his  own  range  of  ideas, 
and  even  from  his  own  sex.  Endeavors  toward  this 


COPE  GETS  NEW  LIGHT  ON  HIS  CHUM   291 

last  are  most  enjoyable — or  least  offensive — when  they 
show  frank  and  patent  inadequacy.  It  was  Arthur 
Lemoyne's  fortune — or  misfortune — to  do  his  work 
all  too  well. 

Mrs.  Phillips  found  his  performance  as  little  to 
her  taste  as  she  had  anticipated.  Carolyn  Thorpe 
got  as  much  enjoyment  out  of  the  gauche  carriage 
and  rough  voices  of  the  "chorus  girls"  as  she  had  ex 
pected,  but  was  not  observed  to  warm  toward  "Anna- 
bella's"  closest  friend.  The  Pearsons,  back  from  their 
wedding  trip,  had  seats  near  the  big  crimson  velvet 
curtain.  Pearson  himself  openly  luxuriated  in  the 
amusing  ineptitude  of  two  or  three  beskirted  acquain 
tances  among  the  upper  classmen,  but  frowned  at 
Lemoyne's  light  tenor  tones  and  mincing  ways.  Of 
course  the  right  sort  of  fellow,  even  if  he  had  to  sing 
his  solo  in  the  lightest  of  light  tenors,  would  still,  on 
lapsing  into  dialogue,  reinstate  himself  apologetically 
by  using  as  rough  and  gruff  a  voice  as  he  could  sum 
mon.  Not  so  Lemoyne:  he  was  doing  a  consistent 
piece  of  "characterization,"  and  he  was  feminine,  even 
overfeminine,  throughout. 

"I  never  liked  him,  anyway,"  said  George  to  Amy. 

Amy  gave  a  nod  of  agreement.  Yet  why  this  crit 
ical  zeal?  There  was  but  one  man  to  like,  after  all. 

"That  make-up !  That  low-cut  gown  !"  said  George, 
in  further  condemnation.  "There's  such  a  thing  as 
going  too  far." 

Basil  Randolph  met  Cope  in  the  back  lobby  at  the 
close  of  the  performance.  The  dramatic  season  in 
the  city  itself  had  begun  to  languish;  besides  that, 


292  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

Randolph,  in  order  to  maintain  his  place  on  the  edge 
of  the  life  academical,  always  made  it  a  point  to 
remember  the  Grayfriars  each  spring. 

"A  very  thorough,  consistent  piece  of  work — your 
friend's,"  said  Randolph.  He  spoke  in  a  firm,  net, 
withholding  tone,  looking  Cope  full  in  the  face,  mean 
while.  What  he  said  was  little,  perhaps,  of  what  was 
in  his  mind;  yet  Cope  caught  a  note  of  criticism  and 
of  condemnation. 

"Yes,"  he  almost  felt  constrained  to  say  in  reply, 
"yes,  I  know  what  you  did  for  him — for  me,  rather; 
and  possibly  this  is  not  the  outcome  foreseen.  I  hope 
you  won't  regret  your  aid." 

Randolph  went  past  him  placidly.  He  seemed  to 
have  little  to  regret.  On  the  contrary,  he  almost  ap 
peared  to  be  pleased.  He  may  have  felt  that  Lemoyne 
had  shown  himself  in  a  tolerably  clear  light,  and  that 
it  was  for  Cope,  should  he  choose,  to  take  heed. 

Two  days  later,  Randolph  gave  his  impression  of 
the  performance  to  Foster.  "It's  just  what  I  should 
have  expected,"  declared  the  cripple  acrimoniously. 
"I'm  glad  you  never  had  any  taste  for  the  fellow ;  and 
I  should  have  been  quite  as  well  pleased  if  I  hadn't 
found  you  caring  for  the  other." 

Randolph  took  refuge  in  a  bland  inexpressiveness. 
There  was  no  need  to  school  his  face :  he  had  only  to 
discipline  his  voice. 

"Oh,  well,"  he  said  smoothly,  "it's  only  a  passing 
amitie — something  soon  to  be  over,  perhaps."  He 
used  an  alien  word  because  he  could  not  select,  on 
the  instant,  from  his  stock  of  English,  the  word  he 


COPE  GETS  NEW  LIGHT  ON  HIS  CHUM   293 

needed,  and  because  he  was  not  quite  sure  what  idea 
he  wanted  to  express.  "I  only  wish,"  he  went  on,  in 
the  same  even  tone,  "that  this  chap  had  been  doing 
better  by  his  work.  At  one  early  stage  of  the  re 
hearsals  there  was  a  lot  of  registration  and  fee-paying 
for  the  new  term.  Well,  if  he  hasn't  been  satisfactory, 
they  needn't  blame  me.  Let  them  blame  the  system 
that  diverts  so  much  time  and  attention  to  interests 
quite  outside  the  regular  curriculum." 

"You  talk  like  a  book!"  said  Foster,  with  blunt 
disdain. 

"Language "  began  Randolph. 

" was  made  to  conceal  thought,"  completed  the 

other.  "Stop  talking.  Stop  thinking.  Or,  if  you 
must  think,  just  get  your  thoughts  back  on  your 
business." 

Foster  might  have  expressed  himself  still  more  pun- 
gently  if  he  had  been  aware,  as  Cope  was,  of  an 
episode  which  took  place,  behind  the  scenes,  at  the 
close  of  the  performance.  Lemoyne's  singing  and 
dancing  in  the  last  act  had  had  a  marked  success: 
after  all,  people  had  come  to  enjoy  and  to  applaud. 
Following  two  or  three  recalls,  a  large  sheaf  of  roses 
had  been  passed  over  the  footlights ;  for  a  close  imi 
tation  of  professional  procedure  was  held  to  give  the 
advantage  of  strict  vraisemblance.  This  "tribute" 
Lemoyne  took  in  character,  with  certain  graces,  pirou 
ettes  and  smiles.  His  success  so  mounted  to  his  head 
(for  he  was  the  one  person  in  the  case  who  approxi 
mated  a  professional  effect)  that  after  he  had  retired 
he  could  not  quiet  down  and  leave  his  part.  He  con- 


294  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

tinued  to  act  off-stage;  and  in  his  general  state  of 
ebulliency  he  endeavored  to  bestow  a  measure  of  up- 
welling  femininity  upon  another  performer  who  was 
in  the  dress  of  his  own  sex.  This  downright  fellow, 
in  cutaway  and  silk  hat,  did  not  understand, — or 
at  least  had  no  patience  with  a  role  carried  too  far. 
He  brusquely  cleared  himself  of  Lemoyne's  arm  with 
a  good  vigorous  push.  This  effort  not  only  propelled 
Lemoyne  against  some  scenery  and  left  him,  despite 
the  voluminous  blond  wig,  with  a  bruise  on  his  fore 
head;  it  immediately  pushed  him  out  of  his  part,  and 
it  ended  by  pushing  him  out  of  the  organization  and 
even  out  of  the  University. 

"Keep  off,  will  you !"  said  the  young  elegant 
crudely. 

Lemoyne's  "atmosphere"  dissipated  suddenly.  His 
art-structure  collapsed.  As  he  looked  about  he  saw 
plainly  that  the  other  man's  act  was  approved.  He 
had  carried  things  too  far.  Well,  such  are  the  risks 
run  by  the  sincere,  self-revealing  artist. 

When  all  this  reached  Cope,  he  felt  a  personal 
chagrin.  Truly,  the  art  of  human  intercourse  was 
an  art  that  called  for  some  care.  Lemoyne's  slight 
wound  left  no  trace  after  forty-eight  hours — perhaps 
his  "notices"  in  "The  Index"  and  "The  Campus"  had 
acted  as  a  salve;  but  certain  sections  of  opinion  re 
mained  unfriendly,  and  there  was  arising  a  new  atmos 
phere  of  distaste  and  disapproval. 

The  college  authorities  had  not  been  satisfied,  for 
some  time,  with  his  clerical  labors,  and  some  of  them 
thought  that  his  stage  performance — an  "exhibition" 


COPE  GETS  NEW  LIGHT  ON  HIS  CHUM    295 

one  of  them  termed  it — called  for  reproof,  or  more. 
They  laid  their  heads  together  and  Lemoyne  and  Cope 
were  not  long  in  learning  their  decision.  Lemoyne 
was  pronounced  a  useless  element  in  one  field,  a  dis 
crepant  element  in  another,  a  detriment  in  both.  His 
essentially  slight  connection  with  the  real  life  of  the 
University  came  to  be  more  fully  recognized.  Alma 
Mater,  in  fine,  could  do  without  him,  and  meant  to. 
Censure  was  the  lot  of  the  indignant  boys  who  offi 
cered  the  society,  and  who  asked  Lemoyne  to  with 
draw  ;  and  complete  scission  from  the  nourishing  vine 
of  Knowledge  was  his  final  fate. 

No  occupation ;  no  source  of  income.  Winncbago 
was  cold;  nor  was  it  to  be  warmed  into  ardor  by 
press-notices.  It  had  seen  too  many  already  and  was 
tired  of  them. 

The  two  young  men  conferred.  Again  Basil  Ran 
dolph  was  their  hope. 

"He  ought  to  be  able  to  do  something  for  me  in 
the  city,"  said  Lemoyne.  "He's  acquainted  in  business 
circles,  isn't  he?" 

Cope  bent  over  him — paler,  thinner,  more  solici 
tous.  "I'll  try  it,"  he  said. 

Cope  once  more  approached  Randolph,  but  Ran 
dolph  shook  his  head.  He  had  no  faith  in  Lemoyne, 
and  he  had  done  enough  already  against  his  own  in 
terests  and  desires. 

Lemoyne  fluttered  about  to  little  effect  for  a  few 
weeks,  while  Cope  was  finishing  up  his  thesis.  Be 
yond  an  accustomed  and  desired  companionship, 
Lemoyne  contributed  nothing — was  a  drag,  in  truth. 


296  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

He  returned  to  Winnebago  a  fortnight  before  the 
convocation  and  the  conferring  of  degrees;  and  it 
was  the  understanding  that,  somehow,  he  and  Cope 
should  share  together  a  summer  divided  between  Win 
nebago  and  Freeford.  Randolph  was  left  to  claim 
Cope's  interest,  if  he  could. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 
COPE  TAKES  HIS  DEGREE 

LEMOYNE'S  departure  but  a  fortnight  before  Cope's 
small  share  in  the  convocation  seemed  to  hint  at 
mutual  dissatisfaction;  it  might  even  stand  for  a 
disagreement,  or  possibly  a  quarrel.  "It's  just  as 
well  that  he  went,"  said  Randoph  to  himself.  "His 
presence  here  was  no  advantage  to  Bertram — nor  to 
anybody  else."  And  with  another  fortnight  Cope 
himself  would  be  gone ;  and  who  knew  in  what  distant 
quarter  he  might  take  up  his  autumn  work?  His  am 
bitions,  as  Randolph  knew,  pointed  to  some  important 
university  in  the  East.  Meanwhile,  make  the  most  of 
the  flying  days. 

Medora  Phillips  took  the  same  view.  She  let  Caro 
lyn  Thorpe  loose  for  a  week's  spring  vacation,  and 
sent  Cope  word  that  she  was  alone  in  a  darkened,  de 
populated  home.  Amy  married.  Hortense  banished. 
Carolyn  waved  aside.  With  all  such  varying  devo 
tions  removed,  why  should  he  not  look  in  on  her  lone 
liness,  during  these  final  days,  for  dinner  or  tea? 
He  was  still  "charming" — however  difficult,  however 
recalcitrant.  And  he  was  soon  to  depart.  And  who 
could  believe  that  the  fall  term  would  bring  his  equal 
or  his  like? 

Randolph,  still  taking  his  business  easily,  had  sug- 
297 


298  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

gestions  for  walks  and  lunches ;  he  had  also  free  time 
to  make  his  suggestions  operative.  But  Cope,  though 
frequently  seen  in  active  movement  on  the  campus  and 
through  the  town,  gave  little  heed  to  either  of  his 
elderly  friends.  He  met  them  both,  in  High  Street, 
on  different  occasions,  and  thanked  and  smiled  and 
promised — and  kept  away.  He  was  doubtless  ab 
sorbed  in  his  special  work,  in  the  details  of  the  clos 
ing  year.  He  may  have  thought  (as  young  men  have 
been  known  to  think)  that,  in  accepting  their  invi 
tations,  he  had  done  enough  for  them  already.  He 
had  shown  his  good  will  on  several  occasions ;  let 
that  suffice.  Or  he  may  have  thought  (  as  young  men 
have  been  found  capable  of  thinking)  not  at  all :  other 
concerns,  more  pressing  and  more  contemporaneous, 
may  have  crowded  them  out  of  his  mind  altogether. 

"I  wonder  if  it's  sensitiveness?"  asked  Randolph  of 
Foster.  "His  chum  didn't  go  away  in  the  best  of 
good  odor.  .  .  ." 

"Settle  it  for  yourself,"  returned  Foster  brusquely. 
"And  recall  that  you  have  an  office — and  might  have 
office-hours.  Still,  if  you  insist  on  asking  me 

"I  don't.     But  you  may  speak,  if  you  like." 

"And  if  you  will  consent  to  be  fobbed  off  with  a 
short-measure  answer " 

"That's  right.     Don't  say  all  you  think." 

"Then  I  would  put  it  somewhere  between  indiffer 
ence  and  ingratitude.  Nearer  the  latter.  We  know 
the  young." 

"I  don't  feel  that  I've  done  so  very  much  for  him," 
said  Randolph,  rather  colorlessly. 


COPE  TAKES  HIS  DEGREE       299 

"You  were  inclined  to." 

"H'm,  yes.  I  could  have  opened  up  avenues  that 
would  have  made  his  year  here  a  very  different  thing. 
Perhaps  he  didn't  realize  what  I  could  do.  And  per 
haps  he  found  me  too  old." 

"Shall  you  attend  the  convocation?" 

"I  go  usually.  I'll  push  him  off  from  shore  and 
waft  him  good-bye." 

"Good-bye?     Good  riddance!" 

"You  never  liked  him." 

"I  never  did.  If  he  leaves  town  without  showing  up 
here,  no  loss." 

"Medora  expects  him  here?" 

"I  think  so." 

Randolph  descended  to  the  lower  floor.  Mrs.  Phil 
lips  was  alone,  seated  behind  a  tea-service  that  steamed 
with  expectation. 

"Going?"  she  asked. 

"Going.  Joe  is  grouchy  and  violent  today.  And 
he  keeps  on  reminding  me  that  I  have  an  office." 

Medora  glanced  at  the  clock.  Expectation  seemed 
to  be  simmering  down. 

"Stay  a  few  moments  if  you  like.  Forget  the  office 
a  little  longer.  I'll  make  some  fresh." 

"Not  all  these  preparations  for  me?" 

"Well,  they're  here.     Take  advantage." 

"You're  all  alone?" 

"Alone.     The  house  is  empty." 

Medora  tried  to  look  as  if  at  the  heart  of  a  tre 
mendous  vacuum. 

"I  can't  fill  it." 


300  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

"You  can  fill  fifteen  minutes." 

"Oh,  if  you're  going  to  confound  time  and  space 
.!" 

He  sat  down  receptively. 

Medora  rang  a  bell  and  harried  Helga  a  little. 

She  glanced  at  Randolph.  He  sat  there  as  if  less 
to  fill  than  to  be  filled. 

"Say  something,"  she  said. 

"Are  you  going  to  the  convocation?" 

"No." 

He  sat  silent. 

"Does  that  exhaust  the  subjects  of  interest?"  she 
asked. 

"Pretty  nearly.     Doesn't  it?" 

Medora  fell  silent  in  turn, — let  the  light  clatter 
of  the  tea  things  speak  for  her. 

"Are  you  going  to  the  convocation?"  he  presently 
asked  again. 

"Such  variety!"  she  mocked. 

"Are  you?" 

She  hesitated. 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"That's  better.     Let's  go  together— as  friends." 

"Who  would  imagine  us  going  as  enemies?" 

"Who,  indeed?"  Yet  if  they  went  together  they 
went  as  reconciled  competitors, — they  went  as  the 
result  of  a  truce. 

"I  should  like  to  see  Bertram  Cope  in  cap  and 
gown,"  he  said. 

"He  has  worn  them  before,  he  tells  me." 

"As  a ?" 


COPE  TAKES  HIS  DEGREE      301 

"As  a  member  of  the  choir,  during  his  undergradu 
ate  days." 

"I  see." 

"I  never  noticed  him  especially,  then,"  she  acknowl 
edged. 

"We  can  notice  him  now." 

Medora  made  a  slight  grimace.  "Yes,  we  can 
notice."  He  the  actor;  the}7  the  audience.  "A  fare 
well  performance." 

"A  final  view." 

Convocation  day  came  clear,  fair,  mild.  The  pro 
fessors  walked  in  colorful  solemnity  beneath  the  elms 
and  up  the  middle  aisle  of  the  chapel,  lending  both 
to  outdoors  and  indoors  the  enlivenment  of  hoods  red, 
yellow,  purple.  The  marshals  led  strings  of  candi 
dates — long  strings  and  short — to  the  platform 
where  the  president  sat,  and  the  deans  presented  in 
due  order  their  bachelors,  masters  and  doctors.  The 
rapid  handing  out  of  the  diplomas  brought  frequent 
applause — bits,  spatters,  volleys,  as  the  case  might 
be.  There  was  recognition  for  a  Chinaman,  for  a 
negro  law-student,  for  a  pair  of  Filipinos ;  there  was 
a  marked  outburst  for  a  husky  young  man  who  was 
assumed  by  the  uninformed  to  have  been  a  star  in  the 
university's  athletic  life;  there  was  a  respectful  but 
emphatic  acknowledgment  for  a  determined-looking 
middle-aged  woman  with  gray  hair,  who  was  led  on 
with  four  men  as  a  little  string  of  five;  there  was  a 
salvo  for  a  thoughtful,  dignified  man  of  thirty-odd, 
who  went  up  as  a  group  in  himself,  attended  by  mar 
shals  before  and  behind;  and  there  was  a  slight  spat- 


302  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

ter  of  applause  for  Bertram  Cope  (one  of  a  small 
procession  of  six),  yet  rather  more  for  a  smiling 
young  man  who  followed  him.  .  . 

Cope  looked  somewhat  spare,  despite  his  voluminous 
gown.  The  trying  lights  added  little  color  to  his  face, 
and  brought  his  cheek-bones  into  undue  prominence. 
But  he  took  his  sheepskin  with  a  bow  and  a  gesture 
that  extinguished  several  of  his  companions ;  and  he 
faced  the  audience,  on  descending  from  the  stage,  with 
a  composed  effect  gained  by  experience  in  the  choir. 
The  lustre  in  the  ceiling  lit  up  his  yellow  hair  and  his 
blue  eyes :  "He  is  as  charming  as  ever !"  thought  Me- 
dora  Phillips. 

"He's  had  a  hard  pull  of  it,"  commented  Ran 
dolph. 

"I  hope  his  own  people  will  feed  him  up  this  sum 
mer,"  said  Medora.  Her  emphasis  was  wayward; 
"He  wouldn't  let  me  do  it,"  she  seemed  to  mean. 

"Nor  me,"  she  almost  made  Randolph  say. 

There  was  a  recessional,  and  then  the  crowds  of 
students  flooded  the  corridors  and  circulated  under 
the  fresh  foliage  of  the  campus.  Randolph  and  Me 
dora  Phillips  passed  out  with  the  rest  of  the  assem 
blage.  In  the  midst  of  one  of  the  avenues  of  elms 
they  noticed  Cope  as  the  center  of  a  little  group : 
two  plain,  elderly  people  (his  parents,  doubtless)  and 
— and 

Medora  Phillips  looked  twice.  Yes,  the  other  figure 
was  Carolyn  Thorpe,  offering  congratulations.  Caro 
lyn  had  returned  to  her  post  and  her  work  the  day 
before.  "H'm,"  thought  Medora,  disposed  to  be 


COPE  TAKES  HIS  DEGREE      303 

miffed.  Still,  Carolyn  had,  after  all,  the  same  right 
to  attend  as  anyone  else. 

Medora  and  Basil  Randolph  added  their  congratu 
lations  to  Carolyn's.  Cope,  still  in  academic  garb, 
performed  the  necessary  introductions.  His  air  was 
eager,  but  cursory ;  smiling  and  ready,  yet  impersonal 
and  cool;  above  all,  expeditious.  If  his  parents 
passed  on  with  the  impression  that  Medora  Phillips 
and  Basil  Randolph  were  but  casual  acquaintances, 
worthy  of  nothing  beyond  brief  formalities,  the  blame 
was  his  own. 

"I'm  showing  father  and  mother  over  the  campus," 
he  said,  with  an  open  smile  and  a  wave  with  his  di 
ploma,  as  he  edged  away. 

The  elders  docilely  took  their  cue,  and  moved  away 
with  him. 

"Well,"  said  Randolph,  "there  are  buildings,  of 
course ;  and  fountains,  and  sun-dials,  and  memorial 
benches ;  but  .  .  ." 

"They  add  nothing  to  him,"  pronounced  Medora, 
as  she  looked  back  on  the  retiring  party. 

"Did  you  expect  them  to?"  he  asked.  "Charm, 
like  guilt,  is  personal.  Anyhow,  there  seems  to  be 
no  brother,"  he  added. 

"Well,  come,  Carolyn,"  said  Medora,  to  her  re 
turned  secretary,  who  was  looking  after  the  party  too ; 
"let's  start  for  home.  Good  afternoon,  Basil." 

"What  nice,  good,  pleasant,  friendly  people  they 
are!"  breathed  Carolyn. 

Randolph  had  strolled  away,  and  Medora  Phillips 
turned  a  studious  glance  on  her  companion.  Carolyn 


304  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

was  conceivably  in  a  state  of  mind — keyed  up  to 
an  all-inclusive  appreciation.  Did  that  foreshadow 
further  verse? — a  rustic  rhapsody,  a  provincial  pan- 
toum?  But  Medora  withheld  question.  Much  as  she 
would  have  enjoyed  a  well-consolidated  impression  of 
the  visitors,  she  did  not  intend  to  secure  it  by  interro 
gating  Carolyn  Thorpe. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 
COPE  IN  A  FINAL  VIEW 

COPE,  after  a  few  days,  followed  his  parents  back 
to  Freeford.  He  may  have  said  good-bye  to  his  land 
lady  and  to  some  of  his  associates  in  his  department; 
but  he  contrived  no  set  adieux  for  the  friends  who 
had  done  so  much  for  him — or  had  tried  to — through 
the  past  year.  Basil  Randolph  and  Medora  Phillips 
had  their  last  view  of  him  when,  diploma  in  hand, 
he  led  his  parents  away,  over  the  campus. 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Randolph  resignedly,  "we  were 
less  important  to  him  than  we  thought.  Only  a 
couple  of  negligible  items  among  many.  Entered  in 
his  ledger — if  we  were  entered — and  now  faded  away 
to  a  dim,  rusty,  illegible  scrawl  .  .  ." 

"Stop  it,  Basil!  You  make  me  feel  old,  antique, 
antediluvian.  I  don't  want  to.  I  shan't  let  myself 
be  pushed  back  and  ignored.  I'm  going  to  give  Amy 
and  George  a  rousing  big  dinner  before  long;  and 
when  the  fall  term  opens  I  shall  entertain  as  never 
before.  And  if  that  young  man  from  the  South  turns 
up  here  during  the  summer  to  see  Hortense,  I  shall 
do  a  lot  for  them." 

Hortense  Dunton  had  long  since  returned,  of 
course,  from  the  Tennessee  and  North  Carolina  moun 
tains  ;  but  she  ignored  the  convocation.  One  drop  of 

305 


306  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

bitterness,  if  tasted  again — even  reminiscently — 
would  have  turned  everything  to  gall.  Instead,  she 
found  a  measure  of  sweetness  in  the  letters  which 
followed  on  her  return  from  that  region.  They  were 
addressed  in  a  bold,  dashing  young  hand,  and  bore 
the  postmark  "Nashville."  Hortense  was  inclined  to 
let  them  lie  conspicuously  on  the  front-hall  table,  for 
half  an  hour  or  so,  before  she  took  them  up.  Little 
might  be  absolutely  known  about  her  passage  with 
Cope;  but  there  the  letters  lay,  for  her  aunt's  eye 
and  for  Carolyn  Thorpe's. 

Carolyn  prattled  a  little,  not  indiscreetly,  about 
her  meeting  with  the  Freeford  family  on  the  campus. 
As  Basil  Randolph  himself  had  done  months  before, 
she  endeavored  to  construct  a  general  environment 
for  them  and  to  determine  their  place  in  the  general 
social  fabric.  She  had,  however,  the  advantage  of 
having  seen  them;  she  was  not  called  to  make  an 
exiguous  evocation  from  the  void.  She  still  held  that 
they  were  nice,  good,  pleasant,  friendly  people:  if 
they  had  subordinated  themselves,  docilely  and  auto 
matically,  to  the  prepotent  social  and  academic  fig 
ures  of  the  society  about  them,  that  in  no  wise  de 
tracted  from  the  favorable  impression  they  had  made 
on  her. 

"Just  the  right  parents  for  Bertram,"  she  said 
fondly,  to  herself.  She  made,  almost  unconsciously, 
the  allowance  that  is  still  generally  made,  among 
Americans,  for  the  difference  between  two  genera 
tions:  the  elder,  of  course,  continues  to  provide  a 
staid,  sober,  and  somewhat  primitive  background  for 


COPE  IN  A  FINAL  VIEW  307 

the  brilliancy  of  the  younger.  Her  own  people,  if 
they  appeared  in  Churchton,  might  seem  a  bit  simple 
and  provincial  too. 

Hortense  took  Carolyn's  slight  and  fond  observa 
tions  with  a  silent  scorn.  When  she  spoke  at  all, 
she  was  likely  to  say  something  about  "family";  and 
it  was  gathered  that  the  dashing  correspondent  at 
Nashville  was  conspicuously  "well-connected."  Also, 
that  he  belonged  to  the  stirring  New  South  and  had 
put  money  in  his  purse.  Hortense's  contempt  for 
the  semi-rustic  and  impecunious  Cope  became  bound 
less. 

About  the  middle  of  July  a  letter  lay  on  the  front- 
hall  table  for  Carolyn.  It  was  from  Cope. 

"Only  think!"  said  Carolyn  to  herself,  in  a  small 
private  ecstasy  within  her  locked  bedchamber;  "he 
wrote  on  his  own  account  and  of  his  own  accord. 
Not  a  line  from  me ;  not  a  suggestion !" 

The  letter  was  an  affair  of  two  small  pages.  "Yours 
very  sincerely,  Bertram  L.  Cope"  simply  told  "My 
dear  Miss  Thorpe"  that  he  had  been  spending  three 
or  four  days  in  Winnebago,  Wisconsin,  and  that 
he  had  now  returned  home  for  a  month  of  further 
study,  having  obtained  a  post  in  an  important  uni 
versity  in  the  East,  at  a  satisfactory  stipend.  A 
supplementary  line  conveyed  regards  to  Mrs.  Phil 
lips.  And  that  was  all. 

Was  it  a  handful  of  husks,  or  was  it  a  banquet? 
Carolyn  took  it  for  the  latter  and  lived  on  it  for 
days.  Little  it  mattered  what  or  how  much  he  had 
written:  he  had  written,  and  of  his  own  accord — as 


308  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

Carolyn  made  a  point  of  from  the  first.  There  is 
an  algebraic  formula  expressive  of  the  truth  that 
"1"  is  an  infinitely  greater  number  of  times  than  "0." 
And  a  single  small  taper  is  infinitely  greater  in  point 
of  light  and  cheer  than  none  at  all.  Carolyn's  little 
world  underwent  illumination,  and  she  with  it.  She 
promptly  soared  aloft  to  a  shining  infinity. 

Medora  Phillips  could  not  overlook  Carolyn's  gen 
eral  glow,  nor  the  sense  of  elevation  she  conveyed. 
Things  became  clearer  still  when  Carolyn  passed  on 
the  scanty  message  which  Cope  had  added  at  the  end. 
"Best  regards  to  Mrs.  Phillips" — there  it  was,  so  far 
as  it  went.  And  Medora  felt,  along  with  Carolyn,  that 
a  slight  mention  was  an  immensity  of  times  greater 
than  no  mention  at  all.  "Very  kind,  very  thoughtful 
of  him,  I'm  sure,"  she  said  without  irony. 

Carolyn  let  her  read  the  letter  for  herself.  It  was 
a  brief,  cool,  succinct  thing,  and  not  at  all  unsuited 
for  general  circulation.  "Best  regards  to  Mrs.  Phil 
lips.  Yours  very  sincerely,  Bertram  L.  Cope,"  she 
read  again ;  then,  like  Carolyn,  she  retired  for  medita 
tion. 

Well,  from  its  dozen  or  fifteen  lines  several  things 
might  fairly  be  inferred.  "Three  or  four  days  in 
Winnebago" — a  scanty  pattern  for  a  visit.  Had 
three  or  four  been  enough?  Had  Lemoyne  been 
found  glum  and  unpleasant?  Had  those  months  of 
close  companionship  brought  about  a  mutually  di 
minished  interest?  Not  a  word  as  to  Lemoyne's  ac 
companying  him  to  Freeford,  or  joining  him  there 
later.  On  the  contrary,  a  strong  implication  that 


COPE  IN  A  FINAL  VIEW  309 

there  would  be  sufficient  to  occupy  him  without  the 
company  of  Lemoyne  or  anybody  else:  evidences  of 
an  eye  set  solely  on  the  new  opportunity  in  the  East. 

"Well,  if  he  is  going  to  get  along  without  him," 
said  Medora  to  herself,  "it  will  be  all  the  better  for 
him.  He  was  never  any  advantage  to  him,"  she 
added,  with  an  informal  and  irresponsible  use  of  her 
pronouns.  But  she  knew  what  she  meant  and  had 
no  auditor  to  satisfy. 

When,  however,  she  touched  on  the  matter  with 
Basil  Randolph  she  showed  more  exactitude.  Randolph 
had  lingered  late  upstairs  with  Foster,  and  he  had 
been  intercepted,  on  his  way  out,  with  an  invitation 
to  remain  to  dinner.  "Very  well,"  he  said.  "Sing-Lo 
is  not  invariably  inspired  on  Monday  evening.  I 
shall  be  glad  to  stay." 

He  felt,  in  fact,  the  need  of  a  little  soothing. 
Foster  had  been  taking  a  farewell  shot  at  Cope  and 
had  been  rough  and  vindictive.  He  had  heard  some 
thing  of  the  antics  of  "Annabella's"  partner  and  had 
magnified  characteristically  the  seriousness  of  the  of 
fense.  "What  hope  for  him" — meaning  Cope — "so 
long  as  he  goes  on  liking  and  admiring  that  fellow?" 

"Well,"  returned  Randolph,  in  an  effortless  plati 
tude,  "liking  is  the  great  mystery — whether  you  take 
its  coming  or  its  going." 

"The  sooner  this  one  goes,  the  better,"  snapped 
Foster.  "Have  you  heard  from  that  fellow  at  all?" 
he  inquired. 

"'That  fellow'?     What  fellow— this  time?" 

"The  other  one,  of  course.    Cope." 


310  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

"No." 

Foster  wiped  out  Cope  with  one  question. 

"Likely  to  'cultivate'  some  other  young  chap,  next 
year?" 

Randolph  had  a  moment  of  sober  thoughtfulness. 

"No." 

"Good!  Get  back  into  harness;  have  'hours'  and 
all  the  rest  of  it.  Best  thing  in  the  world  for  you. 
The  young  care  so  much  for  us — the  devil  they  do !" 

Foster  gave  a  savage,  dragging  clutch  at  his  shade 
and  twisted  rebelliously  in  his  chair. 

Randolph  left  him  to  himself  and  went  below. 

Downstairs  dinner  proceeded  cautiously.  There 
was  no  chance  for  an  interchange  of  thought  until 
the  two  young  women  should  have  been  got  out  of 
the  way.  Hortense  had  her  own  affair  at  the  back  of 
her  head,  and  Carolyn  hers.  Neither  could  sympa 
thize  with  the  other.  Hortense's  manner  to  Carolyn 
was  one  of  half-suppressed  insolence.  Carolyn,  buoyed 
up  interiorly,  seemed  able  to  endure  it, — perhaps  was 
not  fully  conscious  of  it.  There  was  relief  when, 
after  dessert,  each  arose  and  went  her  respective  way. 

Medora  and  Randolph  settled  down  on  a  causeuse 
in  the  drawing-room.  The  place  was  half-lighted, 
but  Randolph  made  out  that  his  companion  was  taking 
on  a  conscious  air  of  pseudo-melancholy.  Her  eyes 
roved  the  dim,  cluttered  room  with  studied  mournful- 
ness,  and  she  said,  presently: 

"Dear  old  house !  Undergoing  depopulation,  and 
soon  to  be  a  waste." 

"Depopulation?" 


COPE  IN  A  FINAL  VIEW  311 

"Yes ;  they're  leaving  it  one  by  one.  First,  Amy. 
You  remember  Amy?" 

"I  believe  so." 

"She  married  George  and  went  away.  You  recall 
the  occasion?" 

"I  think  I  was  present." 

"And  now  it's  Hortense." 

"Is  it,  indeed?" 

She  told  him  about  the  gallant  young  Southerner 
in  Tennessee,  and  gave  a  forecast  of  a  probable  pair 
ing. 

"And  next  it  will  be  Carolyn." 

"Carolyn?     Who  has  cast  his  eye  on  her?" 

Medora  shot  it  out. 

"Bertram  Cope!" 

"Cope!"  Randolph  gave  himself  another  twist  in 
that  well-twisted  sofa. 

"Cope,"  she  repeated.  If  the  boy  were  indeed  be 
yond  her  own  reach,  she  would  report  his  imminent 
capture  by  another  with  as  much  effect  as  she  could 
command. 

And  she  told  of  Carolyn's  fateful  letter. 

"So  that's  how  it  stands?"  he  said  thoughtfully. 

"I  don't  say  'how'  it  stands.  I  don't  say  that  it 
'stands'  at  all.  But  he  has  prospects  and  she  has 
hopes." 

"Prospects  and  hopes, — a  strong  working  com 
bination." 

Medora  took  the  leap.  "She  will  marry  him,  of 
course,"  she  said  decidedly.  "After  his  having  jilted 
Amy » 


312  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

"  'Jilted'  her  ?     Do  you  understand  it  that  way  ?" 

"And  trampled  on  Hortense " 

"'Trampled'?     Surely  you  exaggerate." 

"And  ignored  me —  Yrou  will  let  me  use  that 

mild  word,  'ignored'?" 

"Its  use  is  granted.     He  has  ignored  others  too." 

"After  all  that,  who  is  there  left  in  the  house  but 
Carolyn?  Listen;  I'll  tell  you  how  it  will  be.  She 
has  answered  his  letter,  of  course, — imagine  whether 
or  not  she  was  prompt  about  it ! — and  he  will  answer 
hers " 

"Will  answer  it?" 

"Not  at  once,  perhaps ;  but  soon :  in  the  course  of 
two  or  three  weeks.  Then  she  will  reply, — and  there 
you  have  a  correspondence  in  full  swing.  Then,  in 
the  fall  he  will  write  her  from  his  new  post  in  the 

East,  and  say:  'Dear  Girl, — At  last  I  can ,'  and 

so  on." 

"You  mean  that  you  destine  poor  Carolyn  for  a 
man  who  is  so  apt  at  jilting  and  trampling  and  ignor- 
ing?" 

"Who  else  is  there?"  Medora  continued  to  demand 
sturdily.  "In  October  they  will  be  married — 

"Heaven  forbid!"  ejaculated  Randolph. 

"You  have  something  better  to  suggest?" 

"Nothing  better.  Something  different.  Listen,  as 
you  yourself  say.  Next  October  I  shall  call  on  you, 
put  my  hand  in  my  inside  pocket,  bring  out  a  letter 
and  read  it  to  you.  It  will  run  like  this:  'My  dear 
Mr.  Randolph, — Yrou  will  be  pleased,  I  am  sure,  to 
hear  that  I  now  have  a  good  position  at  the  university 


COPE  IN  A  FINAL  VIEW  313 

in  this  pleasant  town.  Arthur  Lemoyne,  whom  you 
recall,  is  studying  psychology  here,  and  we  are  keep 
ing  house  together.  He  wishes  to  be  remembered.  I 
thank  you  for  your  many  kindnesses,' — that  is  put 
in  as  a  mere  possibility, — 'and  also  send  best  regards 
to  Mrs.  Phillips  and  the  members  of  her  household. 
Sincerely  yours,  Bertram  L.  Cope.'  ' 

"I  won't  accept  that!"  cried  Medora.  "He  will 
marry  Carolyn,  and  I  shall  do  as  much  for  her  as  I 
did  for  Amy,  and  as  much  as  I  expect  to  do  for  Hor- 
tense." 

"I  see.  The  three  matches  made  and  the  desola 
tion  of  the  house  complete." 

"Complete,  yes ;  leaving  me  alone  among  the  ruins." 

"And  nothing  would  rescue  you  from  them  but  a 
fourth?" 

"Basil,  you  are  not  proposing?" 

"I  scarcely  think  so,"  he  returned,  with  slow  can 
dor.  "I  shouldn't  care  to  live  in  this  house ;  and 
you " 

"I  knew  you  never  liked  my  furnishings !" 

— and  you,  I  am  sure,  would  never  care  to  live 
in  any  other." 

"I  shall  stay  where  I  am,"  she  declared.  "Shall 
you  stay  where  you  are?"  she  asked  keenly. 

"Perhaps  not." 

"Confess  that  housekeeping  on  your  own  account 
is  less  attractive  than  it  once  was." 

"I  do.  Confess  that  you,  with  all  your  outfit  and 
all  your  goings-on,  never  quite — never  quite — suc 
ceeded  in  ." 


314  BERTRAM  COPE'S  YEAR 

Medora  shrugged.  "The  young,  at  best,  only  tol 
erate  us.  We  are  but  the  platform  they  dance  on, — 
the  ladder  they  climb  by." 

"After  all,  he  was  a  'charming*  chap.  Your  own 
word,  you  know." 

"Yet  scarcely  worth  the  to-do  we  made  over  him," 
said  Medora,  willing  to  save  her  face. 

Randolph  shrugged  in  turn,  and  threw  out  his 
hands  in  a  gesture  which  she  had  never  known  him 
to  employ  before. 

"Worth  the  to-do?     Who  is?" 


THE   END 


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